


pivotal moments

by polypocket (thejigsawtimess)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Accidental Kissing, Best Friends, Demisexuality, Drinking, Drinking Games, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Exploration, First Kiss, First Love, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Gay Richie Tozier, Horny Teenagers, M/M, Making Out, Marijuana, Nobody is Dead, Post-Pennywise (IT), Pre-IT Chapter Two (2019), Questioning, Recreational Drug Use, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Secret Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Sneaking Around, Sonia Kaspbrak Being Terrible, Teenage Losers Club (IT), Teenage Rebellion, Teenagers, a few years after the first movie, except pennywise fuck that clown, it's bev's fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 83,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23566249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejigsawtimess/pseuds/polypocket
Summary: The first time Richie kisses Eddie is an honest to god accident. The uncorking of a steady, eighteen-year-long brew of hormones and puberty and the inexorable pull of those goddamned red shorts.The next time he kisses Eddie has less of a clear-cut answer.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 116
Kudos: 455
Collections: fics that have me wildin





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I want you all to know that in my Google docs this fic is titled 'I give in' because ive resisted writing reddie for so LONG. But here we are. This one's a story that's been brewing in me, desperately pleading to get out. I'm more of a missionary than an author. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it loves. xoxoxoxo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so everyone is cool, in this fic the Losers are ranging in ages seventeen to eighteen. ✌🏻

It is wordlessly decided between all of the Losers that Beverly gets to pick the movie, given that she is only back in Derry for a weekend, having snuck away from her father’s house in New Jersey to see them. She also never misses an opportunity to remind them all that she was the one that stared down the barrel of a murder-clown’s gaping gullet and saw untold horrors in the deadlights that one fun trip they all took into the sewers a few years back. It’s pretty hard to deny her anything once she brings that up. 

She picks Terminator, stating wistfully that Linda Hamilton could “kick her ass any day”. None of them mind this choice; Bev has fantastic taste in both movies and women. Ben dutifully slots it into the VCR, and they all arrange themselves in their usual spots on and beside his parents’ kitschy, woven furniture. Mike and Bill sit cross-legged on the huge velvet cushions they’ve dragged onto the floor, Ben slumps into the wicker rocking chair, Bev curls herself into the Papisan, and Richie and Eddie sprawl out end to end on the loveseat sofa, their feet in each other’s faces until they get tired of bickering and shoving, and one of them inevitably turns himself around to lean against the other. 

Sarah Connor’s journey of dogged heroism is frequently interrupted by the group’s competing attempts to provide witticisms and commentary, but it doesn’t matter. They’ve all seen the movie hundreds of times. Richie saw it the day- heck, the _night_ it came out, a fact he reminds everyone of several times. 

“Just ‘cause you queued up with a load of other sci-fi nerds at midnight to watch it doesn’t make you the world’s biggest fuckin’ fan, Rich,” Eddie grumbles after enduring his boasting for the fifth time. “Shut up about it.” 

Richie winds an arm around Eddie’s neck (they’ve given up on the toe-to-toe thing early tonight) and holds him tight as he digs his knuckles into Eddie’s scalp. Eddie shouts and flails until Bev throws a cushion at them, and Richie releases him, laughing. Eddie pinches him in the side, and everyone groans when the inevitable slap-tickle fight ensues. Richie wins, red-cheeked, glasses askew, and utterly, gloriously high on the sight of Eddie’s adorable little face all pink and scrunched and angry because he gave in and called a time out. He pulls Eddie into the crook of his arm and earns himself yet another slap for his trouble, but Eddie doesn’t yank himself free, instead surrenders to his fate and falls against Richie to watch the rest of the movie. 

They want to stay up late, they always do, but as usual Bill drops off to sleep before the credits roll, and Mike’s eyelids are half-closed because he gets up crazy early to do farm work every day. Ben suggests, in the tactful way he always suggests it, that they just “set up the beds for later” so that they won’t have to do it when they’re all ready to sleep. Beverly aims a soft, fond smile his way when he says this, and Ben doesn’t notice it, but Richie does, and something about it makes him want to pinch Eddie’s pink little ear. 

“Ow! You fucker, what was that for?” 

Richie shrugs as Eddie rears away from him, hair sticking up where it’s been ruffled against Richie’s shoulder. “My bad. Your mom always liked it.” 

Eddie scowls and climbs off the sofa, grabbing his stuffed overnight bag and heading towards the bathroom. Richie catches Beverly’s eye, which seems to be waiting to meet his from across the room, and they exchange a silent, loaded look. A quirk of the corner of a mouth, the flutter of an eyelid, and they’re up out of their seats one at a time, making lame excuses and sneaking through Ben’s quaint, farm-style kitchen towards the back door. 

On the porch, overlooking the modest, neat garden, drenched in a darkness speckled with bobbing fireflies, the two of them smoke a cigarette each. Bev produces them from a gold case that Richie suspects is her dad’s, though neither of them mention that detail. Cigarette dangling from his lips, Richie pats his pockets in search of a lighter he knows he does not have because he’s a mooch in every respect. Beverly just laughs in that low, careless way of hers - the way that would make any guy feel as though she had an x-ray gun pointed at his crotch and was nothing but amused by the sight - and pulls out a proper zippo, gold to match the case. 

Richie stares into her eyes as she leans in, delicate hands cupped to guard the flame, and lights the tip of his cigarette for him. She has grown up to be just as beautiful as they all thought she was when they were kids and had never so much as touched a girl their age. She is sickly pale with a sudden flame of shimmering orange hair, like the cigarette in her hand, slim and white with a glowing tip. She leans back as she inhales, the sleeves of the big, baggy shirt she’s wearing riding up to her bony elbows. 

“Miss you, Bev,” Richie says, like it’s not poundingly obvious that they all ache for her, feel her absence like a wound in their collective body when she is gone. 

He blows a smoke ring and she makes a ‘wahey’ noise, like she’s impressed, even though Richie learned the trick from her, because he’s only a sliver of the cool she radiates by breathing. 

“I miss you too,” she says, smiling at him through the smoke. Her eyes are deep, revoltingly endless reservoirs of pain. Richie doesn’t tend to waste time hating people. But he hates Mr Marsh with his whole damn heart. “Sometimes when I’m away from you all…” she hesitates, dragging the smoke deep into the tiny cavity of her ribs, “it’s like you’re not real. Like if I stopped focusing, let myself get immersed in something else, you’d slip away. And then one of you’ll call or write me or whatever, and I’ll get this whoosh of you all, rushing back so quick. So intense.” 

They’ve been drinking a bit, here and there, throughout the evening. Ben’s parents have a liquor cabinet, and Mike brought along what he called his cousin’s homemade gin, but is really probably more like moonshine. Richie didn’t think any of them were drunk, but maybe a bit buzzed, which is why the nicotine screeching through Richie’s veins probably feels so damn good. He studies Bev, wondering if she might have had more than the others, or a weaker tolerance, but she seems perfectly sober, apart from the odd, incomprehensible things coming out of her mouth. 

“Nope, sorry, don’t buy it,” Richie says, his words twisting into the cool dark in coils of silver, “I’m unforgettable.”

She laughs, but as usual, it doesn’t reach those flat, sea glass eyes. “Do you think Ben misses me, too?” 

Richie snorts; two puffs of smoke disperse quickly before them. “Seriously, Marsh?”

She aims a grin at him, her white teeth flashing. A firefly brushes her cheek, briefly. “What?” 

“Is this the price of a cigarette? I gotta be your li’l snitch?” 

“That’s right, bitch,” she says, still grinning. “Spill. I wanna visualise his torment, having me so far away.” 

“You’re a sadistic wench,” Richie says, impressed. “Have you always known he liked you?”

She shrugs, dislodging the loose collar of her too-big shirt. “Oh, he doesn’t really. I’m the unobtainable dream. He’s infatuated. He’ll get over it.” 

Richie’s shoulder throbs. He itches it distractedly, forgetting there’s a lit cigarette in between his fingers. “Aw man. Singed my favourite shirt.”

“That Hawaiian monstrosity is your favourite shirt?” 

“Fuck you,” Richie mumbles, brushing off the ash, “what do you call that outfit? Lumberjack chic?”

“I call it hiding,” Bev answers bitterly, then finishes the last of her cigarette with one deep drag. “C’mon.” She angles her head towards the back door, still slightly ajar, and begins to shove the lighter and case back into her huge pockets. “They’ll all have passed out if we stay out too long.” 

*

“You stink of smoke,” Eddie complains when Richie shuffles down into his sleeping bag, the one he’s pulled to lie next to Eddie’s, because if he didn’t then Eddie would just pull his to lie next to Richie’s. “I’m gonna have to breathe through my blanket to avoid inhaling it second hand.” 

“God, what a relief,” Richie replies, “now I won’t have to look at your face.” 

“Please shut up,” Bill moans from way across the room. “I’m exhausted.”

“When did you turn into such a lightweight anyhow, Billiards?” Richie asks. 

“Getting a decent amount of sleep does not make him a lightweight,” Eddie argues, because he cannot help disagreeing with anything Richie says. Not that Richie minds, because arguing with Eddie is, hands down, his favourite activity. “Just because you prefer to wander through life in a sleep-deprived haze, bags under your eyes and taking naps at the back of class whenever it suits you-”

“Is it just me or does Eds’ stick seem particularly jammed up his rectum tonight?” Richie asks the general room. “Did you sit down too fast, Spaghetti man? Need a hand yanking it back into a more comfortable- ow!” 

Eddie has flicked him in the temple, making his glasses jerk askew. “Beep beep, asshole!” 

A few of the others are laughing softly, Richie can hear them. It’s like hearing the faint notes of his favourite song from another room. “Ok, ok, Eds. Sleepytime. You wanna be the little spoon tonight, or-?” 

Eddie kicks him with both feet, as within his sleeping bag they are a singular organism. Richie shrieks in pain that he doesn’t actually feel, feeble as the kick had been through two layers of padding. Bill groans even louder, and someone chucks a stuffed animal that Richie needs to remember to mock Ben about at their heads. 

“Please, Rich, I’m begging you,” Bill says, “quit pulling Eddie's ponytail for the night. He gets it enough all day every day.”

“Whaddya think Eds, I give it to you enough all day every day?”

“Rich,” Bev intones in her smoke deep, authoritative voice, “give it a rest. Tomorrow’s a whole new day for tormenting him.” 

Reluctantly, Richie admits his defeat in a long suffering sigh, rolling onto his back to stare into the void that Ben’s ceiling has become. Something sharp swats him in the shoulder. 

“Why am I even friends with you?” Eddie hisses under his breath. “I hate you so goddamn much.” 

“We’re not friends, Spaghetti,” Richie whispers back, just as quiet, “we’re family. I’m your new stepdaddy, remember?” 

“Get fucked.” 

“Oh, don’t worry, your mom makes sure of that.”

“I swear to God,” Eddie spits, now seething as he rolls onto his side to jab a finger in Richie’s face, “if you don’t stop with the jokes about my mom…”

“Yeah? Then what? You’ll go cry to her?” 

Richie knows, deep down, that this is a little much. He’s pushing hard, and he’s not entirely sure why, only that he needs Eddie to react, needs the heat and pull of the arguing, familiar and constant. So he rolls onto his side as well, until their faces are inches apart, until Eddie’s hot little stuttered breaths ghost over his face, toothpaste-fresh and oh-so exhilarating. 

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“Fuck me yourself, coward.” 

“Why do you wanna piss me off so bad?! Why not pick on one of the others?” 

“You’re the cutest, obviously.”

“I-”

Eddie cuts off, the tips of his ears rosy and glowing. At least, Richie imagines they are, given that the lights are all off, and all the glorious shades of Eddie’s angry, pinched face are greyed and flat. His eyes, however, are sharp and bright, darting across Richie's face, exposing a roughly concealed alarm. Richie lives for that speck of panic in his victims. For the swooping stomach, the heart stuttering over its rhythm. The niggling doubt that he's really, _truly_ just kidding around. 

Eddie’s lost his rebuttal to this panic, Richie realises in the next moment. But the swell of victory that surges up is swiftly extinguished by a different feeling, a tsunami of some other, entirely unexpected thing, looming over them both, about to plummet over their heads. They're so close that they could be sharing a pillow if they wanted. Why had that not been weird ten seconds ago?

For a long time, a weirdly long time, they just stare. The evaporated light makes it difficult to fully read Eddie’s expression, which makes Richie uneasy. He prides himself on being able to read people's forefront emotions; it’s how his comedy lands so well, most times. He can sense which topics get under people’s skin, how far to push them before they truly can’t take another jibe. But this… Eddie has a new look on his face. It’s open, and vulnerable, and… scared. Not scared like Richie remembers, when Eddie was shitting himself in the face of a terrifying clown-alien, but something else. Something deeper, closer to the soul. 

There’s a crescendo of panic, overwhelmed by the certainty of this electric impulse that has formed in the breath of space between them. He’s feeling this as well, Richie thinks, only able to briefly consider the possibility of murder-clown manipulation before he’s pushing forwards, through the space that separates, needlessly, his body from Eddie’s. In that second, as he moves, he feels as if his organs are vying for position to project themselves from his gut, but in the next it’s ok, because Eddie is moving too. Eddie - sweet, cautious, _furious_ Eddie - is dipping his face into the snatch of darkness between them, just the same. 

Their lips collide clumsily, too off-base to be considered a kiss at first, but enough of a shock to their individual systems that both of them gasp on impact. They pull back, wearing matching expressions of horror, and then, just as quickly, lunge back for more. This time, Eddie tilts his head, and their noses don’t knock together, they slot side by side, allowing the plush of their lips to impress upon one another. Eddie tastes like strong, cold peppermint toothpaste. Richie undoubtedly tastes like hours-old smoke and the popcorn kernels still stuck in his teeth, but Eddie… he doesn’t seem to mind one bit. And that might be the weirdest part of all. 

Eddie’s fingers, short and scrabbly, wind into the threadbare cloth of Richie’s old Fleetwood Mac t-shirt, gripping so hard that it makes the collar dig into the back of his neck. Eddie uses it to pull Richie closer, to cement their mouths together more firmly, so Richie takes a shuddering breath, one that goes right to his toes, and slips his own hands into Eddie’s sleeping bag, so he can rest them on that tiny, fragile waist. It feels like his hands were meant to touch there. Eddie shivers, and the dips beneath his ribs contract, adjusting to the curve of Richie’s fingers as they splay over the warm body beneath his starchy pyjama shirt. 

Eddie kisses exactly as Richie might have imagined, were he to allow himself such daydreams. He kisses like a first timer, because that’s exactly what he is. He kisses like he’s vaguely disgusted by the idea of it. He kisses like he’s desperate, like he's tasting a forbidden fruit he never thought he’d get to try. Like Richie is the fruit. Like Richie is the sweetest, juiciest fig, and Eddie’s tongue has only ever tasted sour, bitter limes. 

Richie knows he is pushing his luck when he sweeps his tongue over Eddie’s lower lip. He half expects to be shoved backwards, for Eddie to wipe the excess saliva from his mouth with the back of his hand, for him to shout and swear. But Eddie only gasps again, quiet and involuntary, his mouth slackening as Richie traces it. Eddie fits himself in closer, shimmying into the heat of Richie’s body - an earthworm, burrowing into sun-warmed soil. Tentatively, Eddie’s tongue creeps out to meet his, and for a glorious, prolonged moment, they twine with one another in an explorative, silken dance. Eddie groans, quiet as a mouse, then pushes hard against Richie’s shoulders, rolling him backwards, and Richie is sure it’s all over. 

Then, Eddie rolls on top of him. 

It could last hours, or only minutes more. Richie kisses with everything he has, suddenly sure that this, right here, above him, is his salvation from the hormonal, adolescent angst, and the trauma he’s plagued with daily. He feels - in the bumps of Eddie’s freshly brushed canines, in the slide of his tongue, in the hollow of the roof of his mouth - a kind of Eden. A gateway to something beyond the selfish trawl he makes through his days. Eddie is pure, he is radiant, he is here, wanting Richie, kissing Richie, and it is _Heaven_. 

Finally, when Richie’s jaw aches, and his hands have carved deep, invisible impressions through the valleys of Eddie’s hips and back, someone in the room moves, shuffles, and Eddie leaps off him so fast it would probably make him laugh in other circumstances. A light flicks on, and Richie shuts his eyes tight, still on his back, breathing too fast for a sleeping person, but he hopes whoever it is doesn’t notice. Footsteps pad softly across the room to the door, the tread of a person with a full bladder trying hard not to wake his sleeping buddies. 

Across from him, Richie knows Eddie is pretending to sleep too, just as alert, just as petrified, but he doesn’t dare open his eyes to look. Seeing Eddie in the light would be too much for him, he knows, as tempting as it is. Plus, it’s too risky. What if this peeing person knows what he and Eddie were doing? Was awakened by it, even? So, Richie keeps his eyes shut tight, and wills his breathing to even out. The pee-er takes an impossibly long time. 

By the time they’ve returned and shuffled down into their sleeping bag again, then reached up to turn out the light, Richie isn’t sure he can hear Eddie breathing as loud. He waits, but there is no movement from the boy beside him, no indication that they are about to start up their frenzied snogging again. So, Richie tells himself, Eddie must have decided to sleep. And he should too. 

It takes several hours, long and tormented. But he does.


	2. Chapter 2

For once, Richie isn’t the last of the gang to wake up. He’s woken by the cord of creamy sunlight reaching through the slit in Ben’s curtains; it lashes across his face, streaming into his eyes when he peels them open. He lets the small groan hibernating in his bones seep out into the silence of the room, but nobody else stirs.  When he slips on his glasses, Eddie distills into focus beside him. Seeing him there, so close, sound asleep, is like being submerged in a pool of water just the wrong side of hot. In the bubbles that form as his breath leaves his body, he remembers every splinter of a second that Eddie’s lips were on him, every sweep of his fluttering fingers. 

Abruptly, Richie sits up, his sleeping bag falling to his waist. Eddie is dead to the world, entirely oblivious, and suddenly all Richie needs is to _not_ be here when he wakes up. It's too early in the day to stomach the look of horror that will surely bubble up on that angelic little face as he replays their transgressions in the small hours of the night. Richie wriggles out, a snake shedding its skin, and stumbles, all limbs he has yet to find control over, out of Ben’s bedroom, into the bathroom. 

Ben’s shower head is too low for Richie’s towering body, which seems to have no intentions of stopping its gradual ascent heavenwards as he crashes blindly through puberty. He does the best he can with it, hunched into the spray like Quasimodo, and tries his best to let the developing crick in his neck distract him from thoughts of what Eddie’s saliva tastes like. 

(Mentos and fresh springwater, the sanitised little fuck). 

When he gets out, he realises he forgot towels were a necessary part of the shower experience, so has to dry himself as best he can with Ben’s mom’s pink washcloth, about the size of his face, and then pulls on his t-shirt and sweats again. In the mirror, his scraggly hair sticks to his odd, pointy face, already beginning to fly out into its usual disarray of spring-like curls. He never takes much stock of his appearance normally; Richie’s under no illusions that he’s one of Earth's Beautiful People, and is even what most would call ‘funny looking’. It's his general philosophy that as long as he’s not preening himself, trying to make this whole situation of a face any better, as long as he’s joking loudly about his big nose, buck teeth, four eyes and scrawny frame at every opportunity, he’s one step ahead of the fuckers that would gladly do it or him. 

But this morning, everything is different. This morning is the morning after Eddie Kaspbarak, the boy who would rather snip his own bollocks off than dip his little finger in stagnant water, kissed Richie’s big, dumb face. Kissed it  _ hard _ . 

Richie’s fingers reach up of their own accord, tracing the pockmarks of early teen acne scars that line his jaw. What the hell kind of cataclysmic alien throwdown on the underside of the planet rocked the world so violently off its hinges at 1am this morning? No rational explanation for the wild happenings of last night are anywhere to be found in this steam-choked, entirely too pastel bathroom, so Richie shakes his wet locks to rid them of the worst of the moisture, and opens the door. 

Downstairs, around the breakfast table, Bev, Ben, and Bill are sat eating bowls of various cereals. The boys are faintly squabbling about which is the best one, mouths full, brandishing the packets at one another as they make their points. Eddie is not at the table. Richie’s shoulders drop back into a normal position as he approaches. 

“They call him ‘Cap’n’ for a reason!” Bill argues. 

“Captain of what? Cavities?” Ben holds up his own contender. “You can’t beat a classic. Pop, Snap, and Crackle are veterans of the cereal shelf.” 

Bev is grinning at them both, chewing idly on her own spoonful of Coco Pops. She spots Richie first, and winks at him. “Mornin, wet ‘n wild. You fall in the toilet or what?” 

The other two turn to him, mouths hanging open in mid-bicker. “Oh. Hey, Rich,” Bill says. He places the Cap’n Crunch back onto the table, chastened. “H-How’d you sleep?” 

Richie’s cheeks, apparently not on board with the ‘play it cool’ vibe he’s decided to employ, flush a deep, vibrant magenta. He ruffles his wet hair at Bev to try and hide it, making her squeal, arms protectively caging her bowl of cereal. 

“Benjamin, your floor is not conducive to a man with as much spine as the one I have been saddled with,” Richie complains as he flops into an empty chair, arching over the back of it and making his joints click. 

The others groan out matching noises of disgust. “You could’ve had the sofa,” Ben says, guiltily, presenting Richie with a bowl and spoon. 

“But then I would’ve missed out on all the hot dorm room goss!” Richie pulls all three packets of cereal towards him and sets about concocting a trifecta of tooth-rotting goodness in his bowl. 

“I think we all just fell straight to sleep actually,” Bill says, that charming rueful smile on his face. “The Losers are living up to their name.” 

“I heard some chattering for a while,” Bev says with a shrug, “but I was out like a light. Perks of being a girl and getting the bed. Soon as I hit Mrs Hanscomb’s extra downy, lavender scented pillows, I was in dreamsville.” 

She aims a smile at Ben, who blushes. 

“You could totally sleep down here next time,” he says to Richie. “Save your freakishly long back. Not like any crazy fun was had upstairs once we rolled out the sleeping bags.” 

“Hey,” a small voice says from behind Richie; the recognition has his left leg jiggling like a tuning fork beneath the table. He doesn’t turn, deliberately staring down at his bowl as he stirs the Coco Pops into the Cap’n Crunch and the Krispies. “What’re you guys talking about?” Eddie asks. 

“Just how Richie’s gonna end up with scoliosis,” Bill explains, thumping Richie hard on his sore back. Rice Krispies spurt over the table, making Ben sigh. “Think he injured himself last night.” 

“W-what?” Eddie asks. He sounds suddenly panicked. Richie feels a bubble of hysterical laughter surge up, but he chokes it back. “You… what happened?”

“Relax, Eds,” Richie mutters, reaching for the milk. He tries hard not to react when Eddie sits gingerly in the seat opposite him. The stream of milk pours a little shakily into the bowl. “S’just my bony body objecting to the Hanscombs hardwood flooring.” 

“Oh,” Eddie says; Richie makes the enormous mistake of glancing up at him right as he deposits a heaping spoonful of miscellaneous cereal into his mouth. There’s a deep valley nicked between Eddie’s fair eyebrows, his nose wrinkled as he watches Richie chew his disgusting creation. “What the hell is that you’re eating? You’re gonna give yourself a cavity.”

“That’s what I said!” Ben’s hand banging onto the table almost gives Richie a heart attack. “The Crunch in Cap’n Crunch is just sugar, see Bill-?” 

“Actually, Rice Krispies have almost as much sugar in them,” Eddie says in that pointy way he has, arms folding over his chest. He’s wearing a big sweater, a light blue one. The sleeves completely cover his hands. He looks fucking adorable. Richie shovels another heaped spoonful into his mouth. “Richie!” Eddie shrieks, yanking the bowl away from him. “Stop! You’ll make yourself choke.” 

Richie rolls his eyes, then pulls the bowl back again. The milk is a strange purplish-brown as it sloshes onto Ben’s table. “You’re jus’ jealous ‘cosh I’m’n inn’vator.” Richie gestures to the bowl, which is rapidly becoming a soggy mess of unrecognisable matter. “They try t’get me t’choose one path, an’ I say, hey, f’ck you, ’m swirlin’ all three t’gether!” 

“That doesn’t even make any  _ sense _ , you moron-”

Latching onto the argument like it’s a fucking life raft out on the open waters of this ‘morning after’ bullshit, Richie jams the spoon, loaded with his cereal mess, towards Eddie across the table. Eddie yelps, shooting backwards in his chair like Richie is brandishing a knife. 

“Get that away from me!” 

“C’mon, just try a li’l bit.” 

“Ew,  _ no _ ! It’s got your  _ saliva _ all over it!” 

There’s a silence then. Just a few seconds of it. Richie brings the spoon back to his bowl, and fixes Eddie with a very careful, very deliberate, raised eyebrow. Eddie’s cheeks instantly flame, and he stands from his seat. 

“I’m gonna go take a shower,” he announces in a high, tinny voice. 

So, it probably wasn’t a dream then, Richie thinks as he chokes down another mouthful, watching Eddie leave. Bill and Ben almost immediately descend into their own argument again - whatever thinly disguised surface bickering they can find to replace what - or who - they really want to be squabbling over.  Bev, however, is staring at Richie oddly, like he’s a puzzle she can’t quite solve. She mouths ‘you okay?’, and Richie nods emphatically, his answering grin no doubt stained with chocolate milk. She gags, and pushes her bowl away. 

*

They have plans to go to the quarry that day, to make the most of Bev’s stay by taking her back to the place they all washed off the blood and grime after they almost died, but it rains. They all huddle in Ben’s open doorway in disbelief, watching the globs fall from the dense clouds, smattering their bikes with tinny plinks. 

“Well, I’m going home,” Eddie announces, pushing through them all. “If I stay out in this weather too long my mom will make me spend the next week indoors under a blanket with a thermometer in my-”

“A  _ delicious _ image, Eds,” Richie interrupts, catching hold of his arm; Eddie wrenches it away, scowling. “But we can still hang out here, in the warm and dry, right Benzo?”

“Actually I think I’m gonna head back too,” Mike says, flinging the hood of his parka up. “We’ve got that Social Studies report remember guys.” 

“It’s the bloomin’ holibobs!” Richie roars in protest; his British voice always makes an appearance in times of distress. Eddie is inching further away from his reach, his tiny feet almost at the door. “Scribble out your report the night before like everyone else, Mikey!”

“I’ll come do it with you if you want, Mike,” Stan offers, as if Richie hadn’t spoken, reaching for his own coat on a hook nearby. 

“I can offer an array of cheap, own brand sodas in exchange for your moral support.” Mike grins at Stan, and they call their goodbyes to the group before dashing out into the rain towards the pile of dripping bicycles all tangled together at the end of the garden. 

“Thanks Ben! See ya soon, Bevvie!” one or both of them call as they pedal hurriedly away. 

After that, nobody seems keen to stay, despite Richie’s loud protestations. Bev lights a cigarette and smokes it in the open door, amused by his futile attempts to stop Bill from leaving to ‘pick up some oil for his bike to keep the rust at bay’, and his even more futile attempts to prevent Eddie from going home to placate his lunatic mother. 

“Guys! Bev’s gonna leave tomorrow!” Richie tries one last time, gesturing at her. Eddie and Bill glance at her unsurely, but she just leans coolly against the doorframe, smiling her wan, enigmatic smile. “You’re ruining her last day in Derry!” 

“It’s cool. Ben can show me a good time,” Bev says, and whilst it’s admittedly hilarious to watch Ben’s plump cheeks light up neon pink, Richie is still outraged at being abandoned. 

Bill seems the most likely to be swayed; Eddie on the other hand, is pulling on a hat, gloves, scarf and boots with alarming vigour. He’s bundled up so tightly that there’s barely a lick of skin visible. It wasn’t even raining when he arrived yesterday, Richie is pretty sure. Is this how his mom makes him go around when it's a little cloudy? 

“C’mon Bill, I’ll ride with you to town,” Eddie says, gloved hands buried deep in his stripey cagoule pockets. “I need to stop by the pharmacy.” 

“Your mom out of haemorrhoid cream?” Richie asks, but his heart’s not in it. 

Eddie only gives him the briefest of withering looks, so it’s barely worth it anyway. His heart sinks, knowing he’s lost. Bill and Eddie give Bev two hugs that are equally awkward for entirely different reasons, then trudge across the sodden lawn to their bikes. Richie’s face reflects the horrible grey skies above them. 

Bev elbows him in the ribs. “So dramatic. You’re gonna see them all again in a few days when you’re back at school. What about poor me?”

“You’ll forget them in a few days once you’re back in wherever-the-fuck.”

“Ouch! That was a secret told in confidence, Tozier.” 

“I’m gonna go make us some hot chocolate,” Ben says once Eddie and Bill have cycled out of sight. He closes the door, pausing for a moment for Bev to flick her cigarette stub out into the rain. “You staying, Rich?” 

Richie heaves a dramatic sigh. He should say no, probably. Let this tragic love story he’s now third-wheeling finally get somewhere. But hot chocolate sounds pretty good, and he has nothing waiting for him at home except a nagging sister and two quiet, vaguely disapproving but otherwise absent parents. 

“Someone’s gotta keep the party alive,” Richie replies, strolling back into the living room. “Three hot chocs, Benadryl. Don’t skimp on the ‘mellows.” 

*

Judging by her impressive waddle these days, Richie highly doubts Sonia Kaspbrak has the capability to tend to her unruly garden. Still, it would be much kinder on Richie’s hands and forearms if she called a gardener now and then to prune the wild mess of thorny, scratchy flowers growing up the side of her house, specifically around Eddie’s bedroom window. 

Still, being the brave hero he is, Richie manages to make it up, as he has done every time barr one, when a piece of the cladding crumbled and he fell and scored the world’s purplest bruise on his left buttcheek. Eddie lectured him for days after that. It had been extremely unfunny, until Eddie got all pissy (Eddie-code for abject concern) about Richie using his house as a climbing frame. Then it was just adorable.

He taps on the window in the rhythm of the Ghostbusters theme tune, then waits for Eddie to pry open his floral curtains. He does so almost at once, eyes round and horrified, which Richie pretends not to notice. Instead, he waves manically, exaggeratedly mouthing _‘It’s me! Richie!’_ until Eddie hesitantly pulls up the window. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

“Nooo, I missed  _ you _ more, sweetums. Let me in.” 

“No! You’re soaked. You’re gonna track mud in here-”

“Eddie, I’m coming in this window if I have to tackle you to your classy Bond villain shag carpet,” Richie warns, “move aside.” 

Eddie makes a noise like he’s going to protest further, but Richie is already hooking his leg over the sill, so he just throws his hands up in despair and backs up to let him in, casting furtive looks at his closed bedroom door all the while. Once Richie has fit his enormously long body into Eddie’s weird pink room, he stands and shakes himself like a dog, which is probably why Eddie chucks a Social Studies textbook at him. But that could be for all sorts of reasons. Eddie’s a smidge temperamental. 

“You’re dripping on everything!” Eddie whisper-shouts, marching to his wardrobe and pulling out a thick blanket, which he then chucks at Richie. “Dry off, for pete’s sake.” 

“Watcha doin’?” Richie asks, half-heartedly towelling his shaggy mane with the blanket as he approaches Eddie’s bed. A pad of paper is open on a page half filled with Eddie’s chicken scratch handwriting. Richie bends to look at it, but Eddie snatches the pad away. “Hey, I was reading that!” 

“What do you want, Richie?” Eddie asks, voice cold and quiet. 

“Oh, right,” Richie drops the blanket to the floor and reaches into his jacket pocket; Eddie picks up the blanket and folds it, rolling his eyes. “You left this at Ben’s yesterday.” Richie holds out the inhaler, and Eddie’s eyes fall to it, then flick back up to Richie’s, scrutinising. “This is where you say, ‘ _ oh Richie! You chivalrous cad, you take my breath away _ .’” 

“I have like ten billion of these.” Eddie reaches out and takes the inhaler, but slowly, like he’s expecting Richie’s fingers to snap shut around his hand and trap him. “You know that. Why’d you bring it here now? You could’ve waited till school tomorrow.” 

“Well, I didn’t just come here for that. Gonna stop by your mom’s room in a sec for a pre-back to school smash.” 

“Ew, Rich- beep- you know what, I’m exhausted. Get out of my room before my mom actually finds you in here.”

Laughing, Richie takes a step towards him, pleasantly relieved by how normal this whole scene is - and then Eddie takes one  _ helluva _ step back. It’s such a sudden, jerky movement, that Eddie actually stumbles over the Social Studies book lying limp on the floor, and nearly falls on his pert little ass. They lock eyes; Richie’s ninety percent sure he can hear Eddie’s heart pounding. 

“I was just gonna… give you a noogie,” Richie says. There’s something wrong with his voice, and it’s not intentional for once. It’s coming out weird and flat. Maybe that heart pounding is his own, actually. “No need to shit your pants.” 

“You need to go, Richie.”

“Wait, but-”

“Richie, I don’t wanna talk about-”

The creak of the stairs makes them both freeze. They stare at one another in alarm, both all too used to the telltale sound of Sonia’s heavy footfall by now. Eddie flaps his hands at Richie, ushering him back towards the window. Together they heave it open again, then squeeze and prod Richie’s many limbs through the tight gap, back into the wet, unforgiving darkness. Just as Eddie turns to go, Richie slams a hand down on his wrist. Eddie squeaks in surprise, but turns back, eyes flashing.

“See you tomorrow?” Richie asks after a beat, then internally slaps himself. 

What he really wants is to crack a last joke, so he can ride home on the high of Eddie’s smile. But his funny bone has tapped out for the minute. 

“Of course, numb nuts,” Eddie hisses, then yanks his hand free and pulls the window closed. 

As Richie shimmies back down the trellis, slicing up his hands a treat, he hears Sonia’s nasally voice, muffled but still piercing through the heavy blanket of wind. Then, like a puff of pure oxygen, Eddie’s quieter murmur: “Yes, ma. I will.”

*

“Oh sure,  _ now _ you decide to grace us with your presence,” Richie shouts at the obnoxious ball of fire hovering above the sky, shooting its evil beams of warmth and light over the town of Derry as if it weren’t cowering behind clouds for half the Easter break. “Too late to suck up to me now, buddy. I won’t be sweetened just ‘cause now I get the chance to whip out my guns.” 

Richie pulls his sweater off and knots it around his waist, ignores Bill’s quizzical look, and pulls his front door shut behind him. He collects his bike as he walks to join Bill on the sidewalk, and together they pedal off. 

“You’re like a weird hybrid of an old man and a teenage nerd,” Bill calls to him as they pick up speed. “You yell at the sun now?” 

“Someone’s gotta teach the bastard he can’t just hide when shit gets rough.” 

“You’re a lunatic, Rich.” 

In response, Richie lets out a loud, early morning howl; his third favourite method of chasing the sleep from his bones. Bill almost careers off the street into a ditch, which is a bonus.  They park their bikes in the rack in front of school, already quiet and resigned as they contemplate the looming day ahead in this prison structure, crammed with hormonal grenades in pimpled flesh suits, brimming with anxiety and stress and unresolved trauma. Or maybe that last one only applies to the Losers. 

And then, like a ray of sunlight - real, honest, happy sunlight, not the fake kind the douche in the sky has been doling out recently - a bike slots into the place beside Richie’s, and he turns to see Eddie bent double, threading the wholly unnecessary bike lock through the spires. It takes a lot of self control not to spank the cute little ass aimed his way, but Richie manages to resist. 

“Spagheds!” he cries. 

“Hi.” Eddie does not match his level of enthusiasm. He straightens up, hitching his backpack higher. The straps look as if they’re digging into his shoulders they're so tight. “I can’t talk, I’ve got thirteen minutes to write a whole fucking Social Studies report.”

He turns to go, but Richie catches his arm. It makes Eddie jump, but Richie tries not to read into it. “Huh? I thought you did it last night? I saw you writing it.” 

Bill’s eyebrow arches, but Richie doesn’t have time to explain how he knows weird, intimate details about Eddie’s life. He just does. Always has. Is it because he’s a little obsessed with the germaphobic nut job and low-key stalks him? Perhaps. But Eddie has never explicitly said he _doesn’t_ want Richie to impose himself the way he so often does, and Eddie himself could even be accused of being a tad over-interested in Richie’s affairs. This is just how it is with them. He and Eddie. This is how they work. And Bill either should already know that, or has turned a blind eye until now. 

Eddie throws a vaguely panicked look Bill’s way, then pulls out of Richie’s grip. “No, that was… it was a rewrite of a rewrite. Garbage, basically. I kept- I dunno. I couldn’t concentrate. Now I have nothing, so I’ve gotta…” 

He flaps a hand in the air, then backs off, the end of his sentence disappearing into the crowd of students congregating outside the front entrance along with him. Richie turns to roll his eyes theatrically at Bill, but he’s found Ben and Stan a few yards away. They’re admiring something cool that Ben has drawn in his sketchbook. Some kind of architectural design.  Richie dithers. His soul is tethered to Eddie’s anxiety-rigid body, currently beelining towards the school library probably. He could go and help the poor idiot, or at least keep him company while he fails to write an entire essay before the bell rings. 

But there’s the obvious question of _ why  _ Eddie was so distracted last night. And he thinks he might have a pretty good idea. So it’s probably best, all things considered, to let Eddie try and work alone. He forces himself to turn and stalk over to the others, grin plastered on, already skimming through his rolodex of architecture related puns. His arm lands hard on Ben’s shoulders as he takes a gander at the drawing and lets out a loud whistle of appreciation. 

“Daaamn, Benny! This your design for Derry’s new clown college?” All four of them, including Richie, all visibly tense at the word ‘clown’, but Richie perseveres, nothing if not diligent about taking a joke as far as it can go. “I know a sewer dwelling alien that would  _ love _ to see this.” 

“Oh my fucking- beep  _ beep _ , Richie!” 

“I miss Bev,” Richie sighs, unwinding his arm from an unamused Ben. “She would’ve appreciated that one.” 

“Don’t think you miss her as much as Ben does,” Mike says, suddenly appearing on Stan’s right, grinning wide. “Eh, Hanscom?” 

Ben mumbles something absolutely unintelligible, then drops his sketchbook to the floor, sending pages of half-formed sketches flying. The rest of the ten minutes before the bell is spent sprinting across the courtyard catching fluttering sheets of sketch paper like they’re all Victorian children leaping to catch butterflies. It does their reputation and popularity status huge favours, judging by the jeers.


	3. Chapter 3

Class is three minutes in when Richie pounds open the door and waltzes in, shit eating grin in place, arms swinging, hollering a loud “What is  _ up _ , Derry Maine Social Studies 103? Ya miss me?” 

Mr Kilburn is the type of livid that only exacerbates Richie’s already firm decision to be a little shitpot, cheeks as shiny as two boiled sweets puffed up below his droopy eyes. He bellows several instructions meant to encourage Richie to take a seat, which he does, eventually, but makes sure he has enough time to wander by Eddie’s desk and peer at the pile of crumpled, half-filled papers in front of him. 

“If everyone is  _ settled _ ,” Mr Kilburn says, looking pointedly at Richie, “I’ll get back to the lesson’s main objective, which as I’m sure you all know is the long-awaited hand in of your reports. I’m sure you all slaved long and hard over the break, so-”

“Oh!” Richie calls out in his best exaggerated _‘well I’ll be darned!’_ voice. “Eds, I forgot!” He stands, chair scraping back with a teeth-grinding screech, and jogs to Eddie’s desk, bag still slung over his shoulder. He unzips it as he goes, pulling out the report he did last night in the wee hours, when he was trying to stave off errant thoughts of scrabbling hands beneath the vinyl of his sleeping bag. “You left this in the quad. I picked it up for ya.” 

He thrusts his paper, emblazoned with ‘Edward Kaspbrak’ in the top right corner, in Richie’s best version of Eddie’s weird spiky scrawl. Eddie just stares, perplexed, so Richie drops the paper onto his desk and turns to go. 

“Hold up, Mister Tozier,” Kilburn booms, striding over. Richie halts, turns, beams. “You claim this work belongs to Mister Kaspbrak?” 

“Well gee, teach,” Richie says in his British voice, hands wringing in front of him, “that there’s his name, ain’t it?” 

He points to the name, and Mr Kilburn frowns at it, suspicious. Eddie is trying to shoot daggers at the side of Richie’s face, he’s sure, but getting nowhere. 

“Mister Kaspbrak, you misplaced this report?” 

Eddie’s red faced stammer does most of the work for him. “I-I- well. Um, I-”

“He’s embarrassed, ‘cause he’s not usually the type to forget something so important,” Richie says solemnly. “Eddie knows to prioritise your classes, Mr Kilburn. He worked on this report all break, I know. Wouldn’t even come out of his room to play hopscotch with me and the rest of his chums he was so darned bent on getting it perfect-”

“Alright, alright,” Mr Kilburn interrupts, still suspicious, but obviously having had quite enough. “Go take your seat, Tozier. Mister Kaspbrak, I expect a great deal more caution when looking after your possessions in future. Lost essays will not be accepted as an excuse in my class.” 

Eddie looks as if he’s about to argue, but Richie carefully brushes his arm with his elbow, and he slumps forwards. “Yes, Sir. Apologies, won’t happen again.”

“And thank Mister Tozier for his keen eye.” 

“Yeah. Thanks, Richie,” Eddie grits out, not looking up from the paper. Mr Kilburn snatches it off the desk, and Richie returns, triumphantly, to his seat. 

A few minutes later, when Mr Kilburn reaches Richie’s desk on his tour of the class, collecting essays, Richie is prepared with an excuse. 

“Oh, Mr Kilburn!” Richie exclaims. His palms splay out, facing up to the ceiling. “Whaddya know, in all the confusion of discovering Eddie’s report and ensuring it got safely back to him, I seem to have misplaced my own paper! What a kicker, eh?”

Mr Kilburn’s thumb and forefinger come up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “See me after class, Richie.” 

Richie points two finger guns at him, and Mr Kilburn glowers, then moves on to the desk of the next poor bugger. Eddie’s stare bores into Richie’s skull; he lets it drill deep before turning to flash a charming grin his way. Eddie shakes his head softly, mouth a thin, straight line, then turns away. 

*

When Richie strolls out of Social Studies, ten minutes into his precious lunch hour thanks to Mr Kilburn’s spittle spray of a lecture, Eddie is waiting to ambush him in the hall. He’s so tiny that Richie doesn’t clock him until he’s right up close, perched on his tippy-toes, jabbing an angry finger in the centre of Richie’s chest. 

“What the fuck d’you do that for?” 

“Yikes, last time I do you a favour short stack,” Richie replies, slinging an arm around Eddie’s shoulders. Eddie promptly extricates himself, worming out of the embrace as if Richie’s arm were ablaze. “Aw, c’mon, why are you mad at me for helping you out? I couldn’t bear to see that cute face all scrunched up and miserable, is all.”

“You got detention, didn’t you?” 

“Technically I already had detention,” Richie corrects; he begins strolling down the corridor, led by his rumbling stomach towards the delectable stench of Meatball Monday Surprise wafting from the canteen. “But yes, Mr Kilburn did add a succulent cherry on top, to sweeten the deal.”

“How do you  _ already _ have detention?!” Eddie exclaims, jogging to match pace. “We’ve been back at school for four hours.” 

“It was a kind of rollover deal from last term.” When Eddie doesn’t match his smug smile, Richie rolls his eyes. “I’m a bad boy, Edward. You’ll just have to make peace with that.” 

“I don’t understand you.”

“Ahh, don’t sweat it, baby. Many before you have tried and failed.”

“You have the highest GPA in the school!”

One of Richie’s shoulders brushes up to his ear. “It’s boring up here on top. Need to create my own entertainment.” 

Eddie stops then, in the middle of the corridor. A few kids swear and gesture at them, forced to swerve the two morons stock still in the middle of the lunch-bound stream. Without warning, Eddie grabs Richie’s arm and hauls him to the side of the corridor, almost slamming him into a locker. It does strange, turbulent things to Richie’s stomach, which is already gurgling. 

“Tell me the truth,” Eddie says in a low, urgent voice, “would you have done that for Stan? Or Bill? Or any of the other Losers?” 

Eddie’s hot little hand is still clamped around the skin of his wrist. He stares down at it, enjoying the tingles creeping up his forearm. “No offence, Eds, but the others seemed to have their shit together a little more than you did this morning-”

“What am I gonna get for that paper? A fucking A plus?” Eddie seems angry, inexplicably. His reactions to given situations are so incalculable that it’s frankly quite fascinating. He’s a science experiment, bubbling and reacting, for Richie’s observation. “You just handed over your outstanding grade to me ‘cause I seemed a bit... stressed out?” 

For once, Richie doesn’t know what to say. He tries for a shrug ‘n grin. His trademark. It’s the wrong move. Eddie releases his wrist with an ‘ugh’ noise, and stalks off, into the throng, leaving Richie perplexed and, moments later, bruised from how hard he’s shoved into the lockers by Adam Holborn and his meathead friends.

*

Richie’s in the middle of his best Tom Hanks impression when Mike slams his backpack down onto the table and launches himself into the only available seat left at the picnic table they’re crammed around. Stan is stretched out on the grass beside them anyway, eyes framed by his hands, curled into makeshift binoculars as he stares at the sky. 

“... Eddie’s momma always told me: ‘ _ life is like a box of _ -”

“Alright I can’t take this anymore,” Mike loudly declares, cutting Richie off right at the pinnacle of the quote. “Someone at this table is hiding the fact they spent last weekend smooching themselves stupid, and that someone needs to fess the fuck up.”

Beside him, Richie can feel the fear lashing through Eddie’s tiny body. He's suddenly ramrod straight, on the verge of fleeing. Although an icy needle of alarm does pierce through Richie’s heart as well, he’s far more used to staying calm in the face of unexpected confrontation, so he places a discreet hand down on Eddie’s jittering knee beneath the table.

“Are you talking about me and Sonia?" Richie asks. "‘Cause that’s old news, buddy, we’ve been going at it for, like, weeks-”

“Shut up, Rich, this isn’t about you.” 

At once, the tension floods out of Eddie; his knee stills beneath Richie’s hand. He reaches, wordless, for his inhaler and takes a quiet puff. As his own heartbeat slows back to normal human rhythm, Richie notes for the first time that Mike’s gaze is pinned on Ben. As realisation dawns, Richie feels the warmth of a lantern being lit in his ribcage. 

“Ben, my man,” Mike says, grinning as he sticks out his hand across the table, “congratulations! You finally locked those smackers on a living, breathing member of the opposite sex.” 

Ignoring Mike’s offered handshake, Ben casts a worried glance at Bill, who is frowning hard at the grain of the table, tracing a whorl with his finger. “It… it wasn’t a huge thing…”

“No fucking way!” Richie exclaims, practically bouncing in his seat. “Ben, you kept your first game of tonsil tennis quiet? From  _ us _ ?!” 

In the next second, as Eddie rips Richie’s hand from his knee, Richie clocks the hypocrisy of this accusation. But it’s a little different, in his opinion. After all, everybody knew that Ben and Bev would eventually give in to their pining. If Richie and Eddie revealed that they’d drunkenly snogged for several hours on Ben’s bedroom floor, the reactions would be a lot less jovial. More likely in the realm of horrified. 

“Well, it could have been… you know, a friends-type thing…”

Bill chuckles; it sounds vaguely scornful. Richie catches his eye, and Bill’s shoulders soften in a sigh. “Bev wouldn’t do things by halves, man. If she kissed you, it's 'cause she wanted to.”

The corner of Ben’s mouth quirks up in a grateful smile; Bill returns it, which is exactly why he’s the Losers Club’s unofficial benevolent leader. No one is going to pretend they can’t see the jealousy leaking out of Bill’s poreless perfect skin, least of all Bill, but at least he’s not being a dick about the whole thing. 

Stan has manoeuvred himself into an upright position by now. “Hold up,” he says, making everyone turn, “so are we still losers if we’ve all officially had our first kiss now?” 

Stan never misses an opportunity to remind everyone that he’s made out with the smoking hot Grace Poulter, a girl that lives in Connecticut, but that he’s known since infancy, as their moms got pregnant at the same time. Last year, during Winter Break, Stan and his family had gone to stay with the Poulters, and Stan had spent most of that time openly yearning for the newly voluptuous, post-puberty version of his childhood friend. On their last day, Grace had dragged him out for a snowball fight, and the rough-housing had led to some tame but transformative kissing - behind the house so that none of their parents would see. This was all confirmed by the Losers when they read Grace’s letters to Stan in the weeks that followed his return to Derry.  _ Quite _ the scandal amongst them all when it happened. 

“Nah,” Mike says, chewing on a weird looking protein bar that Eddie is grimacing at, “Eddie’s letting the team down.” 

He flashes Eddie a glimpse of his seed-riddled gnashers. Eddie’s cheeks instantly pinken, and Richie’s protective streak goes into overdrive. He throws his arms around his best friend, fixing Mike with a hard glare. 

“Hey! Lay off,” he cries, though his heart is racing again, from the concealed truth he feels is bubbling beneath this picnic table in a large vat, pouring fumes into the air that they’ll surely catch a whiff of. “It’s tough going when you’re too short to reach the average pair o’lips-”

Eddie swears, loud and sailor gruff, then shoves Richie hard to escape his tentacle grip. “Fuck off. I have no desire to contract herpes or mono from someone’s unclean mouth for the sake of our collective high school reputation.” 

The back of Richie’s throat sort of swallows itself to prevent a hysterical laugh from escaping. Unfortunately, this makes a very peculiar sound come out instead, and everyone stares at him weirdly. Eddie, on the other hand, mutters something angry under his breath, then swings his legs out of the bench, kicking Richie twice in the process, and makes a hasty exit from the conversation. 

As he’s rubbing the fresh bruises beginning to form from Eddie’s clunky orthopedic shoes, Richie contemplates how that whole thing could, possibly, have been handled a little better on his part. 

*

For the next three days, Eddie avoids him. It’s  _ awful _ . It’s worse because Eddie is bad at it, or at least he’s not trying to be discreet, as he obviously has no concerns about sparing Richie’s feelings. Richie turns into a corridor, and Eddie will back straight out of it. Eddie has an empty seat next to him at the cafeteria table, he’ll slide his bag into it, or urge Ben to move up and sit next to him. Richie directs a question at him, he’ll lower his eyes and shrug, mumble something noncommittal, and strike up a conversation with Stan about a bird he’s been hearing outside his window.

It’s infuriating. Richie can’t even make the little fucker laugh. That’s his whole mission statement, if you boil him down to his core: Make Eddie Kaspbrak Laugh. He’s performing so big and loud by the end of the third day, trying on every Voice he can even vaguely imitate, that Ben squirts strawberry milk out of his nose. Meanwhile Eddie keeps his own cute, snub, but infuriatingly milk-free nose buried in a Biology textbook, not paying Richie a lick of attention. 

Then, Eddie gets up to leave. They’ve been chilling outside school by the wall near the bike racks, lingering to chat and complain about schoolwork before heading home. Like always. But Eddie is just _leaving_ , like he’s grown bored of their tradition, and would much prefer to hurry home so he can sit alone in front of the TV with his psychotic mother.

“Eds!” Richie suddenly cries, springing to his feet. “Wait up. I need your help with that Biology homework.” 

Alarmed, Eddie backs up, hand already on his bike’s handlebars. “Uh, ask Bill. I’ve gotta…” 

“Noooo,” Richie protests, jogging over to slam his own hand down on the bike he’s edging out. “I need that magic Kaspbrak touch. You know you’re the only one who can force me to sit still long enough to explain things to me.”

Up close, with only the bike between them, Eddie’s expression hardens. “What are you talking about?” he hisses. “You’ve never needed my help with homework in your life.” 

“Aw, you will?!” Richie exclaims loudly, then wraps Eddie in a hug that is, of course, promptly ended by Eddie’s indignant smacking and shoving. “Thanks, Eds. Owe you one. Lead on.” 

“My mom is never going to let you in the house,” Eddie grumbles, but he’s already walking his bike towards the sidewalk. Hurriedly, Richie backs his own bike out of its slot and wheels it to keep pace beside him. “This is so dumb.” 

“Watch me work my magic on her. I’ll charm her plus-sized panties off.” 

“Ugh.”

He waits until they’re about two minutes into the journey - practically a world record for him - before bringing up the elephant that’s been tramping along behind them. Judging by his wide-eyed Bambi expression, Eddie was not expecting the sudden switch from Richie’s amusing commentary about the class hamster’s decision to eat three of its babies in Biology earlier, into last Saturday night. 

“So, you’re pissed at me about macking on you at Ben’s last weekend? ‘Cause I swear I thought it was, like, a mutual madness, but if you’re thinking back on it and it seemed at all non-consensual-”

Eddie’s face drops so quickly into abject terror that his bike clatters to the floor. He lunges at Richie, seizing him by the collar of his stylish flamingo-patterned shirt, and shoving him into a copse of trees at the side of the street. Heart in his throat because this is the most physical contact he’s had with Eddie in three days, Richie sticks his eyes to the spinning front wheel of the abandoned bicycle and tries not to let any of his blood dribble in the direction of his dick. 

“Shut  _ up _ ,” Eddie growls, eyes alight with fury. “What is the matter with you!? You can’t just go around yelling about-  _ that _ in your loud, obnoxious voice in the middle of the fucking street!” 

Because he’s an idiot, Richie says, “is it bad that this is making me super horny?” 

Eddie releases him like he’s burning. “God, you’re impossible! Do you wanna know why I’m mad at you, Rich? It’s because you can’t fucking resist turning everything into a joke!” 

He whirls around, stepping out of the trees to retrieve his bike. Richie gives him almost an entire two seconds, because he’s clearly seething, and then hops out after him. “Eds, I gotta be honest, I’m a little confused. Joking about everything’s kinda my whole schtick… you’ve never gotten pissed at me for it before.”

“Yes I have! I get pissed at you for making dumb, unfunny jokes every single day!” 

Richie has to jog to keep up with Eddie at this point. “Well yeah, but not a ‘no speaking for three days’ level of pissed.” He scrabbles under Eddie’s armpit, desperate to encourage even a glimmer of a smile. His voice slips into its Film Noir narrator impression. “No way, Buster. There’s something else at play here… something that spells  _ trouble _ .” 

“I hate you,” Eddie says, squirming away from the failed tickle. His voice has lost its edge though. Richie feels himself deflate slightly in relief. 

Richie does, somehow, manage to charm his way past the Sonia Kaspbrak-shaped brick wall stood in the doorway of Eddie’s house. She is not happy, but reluctantly does allow for Eddie to have his ‘lab partner’ upstairs for “one hour only” to work on their ‘Biology project’. Richie gives her his most ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ smile as he slinks past her enormous frame, Eddie trailing behind him.  Once they’re safely concealed in Eddie’s bedroom, Richie collapses on the bed, feeling as if he’s reached the finish line of a fucking marathon. Eddie just watches him from the door, gnawing at his lip. Richie tries his darndest not to think about when he did the same thing. 

“So, are we good now?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “First off, you don’t even understand what I’m mad about. Second, you haven’t apologised. Third-”

“I’m sorry!” Richie slides from the bed to prostrate himself on Eddie’s carpet. “Edouardo! I’m so very sorry for the pain I have caused your fair heart. Please, find it in yourself to forgive me my trespasses-”

“Lower your voice, oh my God-” Eddie says, panicked, but Richie can hear that telltale smile in his voice even with his face buried in the shagpile. Footsteps pad towards him, and Richie grins so hard that he gets carpet fibres in his teeth. “Fine. Whatever, we’re good. Just shut up before my mom comes up here and interrogates us,  _ please _ .”

Richie sits up, squinting suspiciously at him. “So, just to be clear, this  _ isn’t _ about what happened at Ben’s on Saturday?” 

Eddie’s cheeks flush a ripe plum colour. “No. Can you stop bringing that up?” 

“But-”

“Rich, I said I don’t wanna talk about it.” 

Eddie’s hard, insistent stare would be a lot more convincing if his bright cheeks weren’t betraying his nerves. Richie raises an eyebrow, but reluctantly lets the matter drop. For now. 

“Alright, but if it’s a dig at my tonguing skills, I need to know pronto. Got other customers to satisfy, y’know…”

A neatly tied pair of socks hurl themselves at Richie’s head. “Moron.” 

Richie hurls them back. “Pea-brain.” 

They glare for a moment, and then the matching grins break through; Richie could cry with how good it feels. To look into Eddie’s sparkling eyes, lit up by a smile directed towards him, exasperated as it may be. He'll never take such a vision for granted again.  They spend the hour they’ve been graciously granted by Mrs Kaspbrak doing usual Richie-Eddie stuff. They read a comic, argue about who’s the best superhero of all time, argue about how fast to turn the page, argue about how they should lie on Eddie’s bed in order to both be able to see it. When they’re done with the comic, Eddie starts talking about school, and the Losers, and then in a rambling rush slips into the first-kiss thing that got brought up at lunch a few days ago, and Richie feels, instantly, like a huge bumbling idiot for behaving the way he did. 

“S’just a sore subject ‘cause I’ve, y’know, got some hangups about, like, bodily fluids. I’ve never liked the idea of kissing someone. You have to admit it’s so gross to think about all the saliva and teeth and tongues mashing together like that. I always just thought that maybe I was weird and I wouldn’t ever want to try it, and that we’d all just accept I was the One Who Didn’t Kiss Girls, and that would be that. I mean, we’re all weird in one way or another, I just thought that could be my  _ thing _ . It’s not until I actually experienced it that I understood why other people even  _ do _ it, and I couldn’t explain that to Stan and the others ‘cause- ‘cause…” 

He trails off, patting his trouser pockets in search of an inhaler that he doesn’t really need. And Richie rolls right over and kisses him, because he can feel Eddie’s nauseating anxiety seeping across the hideous floral comforter, and it’s all his fault for being a total fucking dumbass after giving Eddie a literal reorientation of his worldview by kissing him senseless when he thought he’d never kiss anyone in his life. 

Eddie squeaks when Richie’s lips meet his. Richie doesn’t keep them there, is too scared to, so he just rolls away again, onto his back, and stares straight up at Eddie’s darling lampshade, fringed with little pink tassels. 

“Erm.” Richie clears his throat. “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.” 

Eddie turns his head to look at him. “Richie. What?” 

With all his might, Richie forces himself to meet Eddie’s eyes. Their faces are a lot closer than he’d anticipated. His mouth opens, but nothing, not even the world’s lamest ‘your mom’ joke can find its way out. He closes it again, and Eddie gets a look of determination on his face. It’s adorable. Like he’s readying himself to step up to the plate in the face of Richie’s silence.  He leans forwards, tentative, eyes flicking frantically to and fro. It’s torturous, to wait for him to close the gap between them, so Richie generously meets him halfway. Like before, the kiss starts out fumbling and awkward. A drag of dry mouths and the clack of teeth. Eddie vaguely repulsed by the whole thing. And then Eddie shifts his whole body forwards, aligns himself against Richie, his toes level with Richie’s shins. After that, everything seems to slot into place. Richie’s hand rests on Eddie’s hip, the tips of his fingers grazing the edge of his bum, which in itself is making his heart dance the lambada. 

Eddie’s mouth is careful, explorative, pulling at Richie’s lower lip, tasting with the pointed tip of his tongue. Richie could sing entire ballads about that tongue, about the way it inches across the sensitive underside of his lip, how it pushes inside his mouth just slightly, then draws back, like a frightened creature in the dark.  He smells divine, like fresh air and pencil shavings and the slightly acidic peony scent of his hand sanitiser. His hand is wound tight in Richie’s hair. 

There’s a creak, a foot on the stair, and they jump apart. Richie’s heart is pounding so violently that he almost grabs Eddie’s hand and pulls it to his chest to feel it, but he checks himself just in time. Instead, he forces himself to roll off the bed, because Eddie seems immobilised, rigid in the middle of it. Richie knows they have mere moments before Sonia opens that door, so he scrambles for words, any words, that might not be the total wrong ones to say. 

“Would it comfort you to know that I almost certainly do not have mono?” He pauses. “Or herpes?” 

Eddie’s eyes close in dismay. “Holy  _ shit _ , Richie.” 

Sonia opens the door, beady eyes scanning the room for drug paraphernalia or littered condoms. She finds none, and drags her gaze to the one offending item she can see in this pristine doll’s bedroom. 

“Time to get home now, Richard.” 

*

A few days later, at around six in the evening, a knock sounds at Richie’s bedroom door, followed promptly by Roberta swinging the door so wide it bangs into the wall. Richie pulls off his headphones, already annoyed. 

“Richieeee!” Roberta screams. “Mom says you have to cook dinner tonight. I want waffles.” 

“Potato waffles?” 

“No! Real waffles. With peanut butter.”

“Bert, you’re allergic to peanut butter. You’ll swell up like a balloon and you won’t fit into any of your dresses anymore. I’ll have to sell you to a clown to shape you into different zoo animals.” 

He should really stop making clown jokes. It’s distasteful.

“No I woooon’t,” she insists, swinging on the already loose handle of Richie’s door. “Pleeease? Mom and Dad are going out so they won’t even know.”

“I’ll make waffles later,” Richie says, sliding his headphones back into place. “With chocolate and banana. I’m not having mom blame me for letting you die of anaphylactic shock because you’re a little greedy guts. Go play with your Barbies for a while.”

“I do  _ not _ play with Barbies!” she shrieks, hands on her hips. “Barbies are for little girls!”

“Action Man then,” Richie says, already drowning her out with The Cure. “Go on, scram.”

“I’m telling mom you’re starving me!” She takes off running down the stairs, calling for their mom in her piercing little kid voice. 

“Good luck getting her to care,” Richie mutters, eyes fluttering closed. “ _ Whenever I’m alone with you _ ,” he sings softly, picturing chocolate brown eyes, and a soft, unchapped mouth, “ _ you make me feel like I am home again… _ ”

He reaches up, and winds his own fingers deep into the thick roots of his hair. 

*

“There’s a boy outside,” Roberta says around a mouthful of half-chewed waffle matter. She’s staring out the window behind Richie’s head. 

Instantly, Richie’s body seizes up in panic. He imagines all the usual horrors framed in the too-large kitchen window at his rear: bloodied children with their arms torn clean off, clowns with paint peeling from their decaying faces, big razor-toothed woodcutter statues suddenly forced into animation. He tells himself to breathe, forcibly replaying the memory of the seven of them confronting the monster that destroyed each of their innocences and sending it back to the stinking depths beneath Derry. For good. 

He takes a deep breath in, then looks Roberta in her chocolate smeared face. “What?” 

“In the garden,” she says, gesturing with her fork. “There’s a boy. He’s got a stripey cagoule on.” She giggles. “It’s barely even raining outside.” 

Richie’s heart does a pathetic leap. He doesn’t need to turn. He’d know that ugly striped cagoule anywhere. “Um, stay here and finish your waffles, okay?” 

He makes a beeline for the back door, through the utility room. When he opens it, the patio light flicks on, and Eddie looks up from where he’s wrestling with his bike. The toggle from his coat is caught on the bars. Richie's toes curl from how much he wants to kiss him in that moment. 

“Come out here and help me, asshole!” Eddie calls to him, and Richie grins, waves, cups his hands around his ears and shrugs like he can’t hear. Eddie flips him off. The toggle eventually pops free, and Eddie stumbles, then marches up to where Richie is stood in the doorway, frown lines wedged deeply in his forehead. “Thanks a lot.”

He barges past Richie into the house, pulling the hood of the raincoat down. Unlike Eddie’s house, Casa de Tozier has an open door for any of Richie’s friends, mostly because Mr and Mrs Tozier are rarely in it, or if they are, they’re tucked away in the far corners behind closed doors, concealed from their pestering children.  Richie follows Eddie into the kitchen, delighted by his sudden, unexpected appearance. He’s so happy that he doesn’t even yell at Roberta for mauling poor Eds with sticky waffle hands as she barrels at him, screaming about chocolate banana honey ice cream flavour combinations (a special Richie concoction designed to induce the ultimate sugar crash just in time for her bedtime). Eddie is chased around the kitchen, shrieking because he doesn’t want to get her mess all over him, and Roberta cackles, finding it almost as hilarious as Richie does. 

Eventually, Richie tires of the spectacle however, and catches Roberta by lunging at her legs and lifting her high into the air. She screams so loud that a neighbour’s dog begins barking, but begs him to do it again and again, Richie spinning her round the kitchen while Eddie yelps that she’s going to hit her head on the fancy hanging lights over the breakfast bar.  Fifteen minutes later, Richie sits Roberta on the sofa in the living room and tosses her a bag of gummy sweets he won off some idiot that thought he could best Richie at a game of Street Fighter. 

“Watch a movie for a while, okay? Then it’s bedtime.”

Roberta tears into the packet so violently that sweets explode across the couch and floor, giving Eddie a mild heart attack. Richie has to physically haul him up off his hands and knees, where he’s collecting the gummies that have escaped under the sofa. 

“Richie! They’ll grow mould if they’re left under there!” 

“I’ll get to ‘em later! C’mon, let’s go to my room.” 

That shuts him up. Eddie follows obediently, sticking close to Richie as he always does in this house, like he’d get lost in it, despite the thousands of times he’s been here. Like always, again, Eddie’s eyes stick to the creepy, posed portraits lining the wall that Richie’s mom arranges a photographer to come and take every few years. Richie and Roberta in all-white outfits perched on a secluded park bench. The four of them sat around the dinner table in front of pristine, food-less plates, holding hands like they’re in the midst of a prayer. One of Richie on his own, that he hates, in black and white looking off to the right as if he weren’t even aware of the camera, though he distinctly remembers how it was jammed up almost touching his face. Eddie stares at that one longest, so Richie has to make a joke to diffuse the horrendous embarrassment he feels. 

“Yeah, look your fill, Eds,” Richie says, turning around on the landing stair to imitate the pose, gazing serenely into the distance, “my agent says it won’t be long before this mug is snatched up by Vogue or Cosmo. This is front page material, she says. Soon enough you won’t be able to stare at my pretty face every day anymore unless it's plastered on a laminated page.”

For some reason, this last stupid comment makes Eddie blush. Not very deep, but still noticeable. He flaps his hands at Richie, to hide the fluster. “C’mon dickbrain, keep going. My mom doesn’t know I snuck out, I don’t have long.” 

“Sad news,” Richie says, turning to continue up the second flight of stairs, “I was planning a wine and dine situation.” 

Eddie snorts, then chokes a cough - another flustered noise. “You didn’t even know I was coming.” Richie opens his mouth to make the obvious sexual joke. “ _ Don’t _ . God, you are so...”

Richie doesn’t get to hear what he is ‘so’, because the last of that sentence disappears under Eddie’s sharply exhaled breath. They’ve reached the third floor, and meandered down the hall to Richie’s bedroom. He doesn’t think it’s much, really, just some fancy antique furniture he didn’t choose and an assortment of random knick-knacks that Richie finds in weird places (old ladies who are keen to hand down their trinkets to young whippersnappers, junkyards with no guard dogs, thrift shops with cheap deals, or, from time to time, less wholesome methods). 

His bed is the best thing in here, a new addition since Eddie’s last visit, because the Tozier adults gave up trying to cope with Richie’s alarmingly quick growth spurts, and just decided to give him a King sized bed in case he never stopped growing. Richie leaps onto it now, scooching up to lean against the pillows, and pats the space beside him with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. Eddie looks like he’s about to turn and flee. 

“I didn’t come here to- y’know,” Eddie blurts. Two spots of colour appear on his cheeks. 

Richie contorts his face back into a semblance of seriousness. As close as he can get anyway. “I know, I’m only messing.” There’s a pause. Eddie still doesn’t step any closer. “Obviously you came here to pose in my bedroom doorway all night like a tiny Greek statue, so I can admire those muscled calves from afar.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, but the stupid comment seems to have drained a little of the unease. He steps forwards, painting the walls with his stare as if he hasn’t seen them at least twice a week since they were kids. 

“I actually, um, did want help,” he says, slipping the backpack Richie hadn’t even noticed him wearing down his arm. He unzips it and pulls out his Biology textbook and a notepad. Richie can feel his heart plummet in disappointment, but he manages not to let it show. “I know I’m pushing it with the favours, recently, but…” At the sight of Richie’s confused, slightly alarmed face, Eddie backtracks. “I mean ‘cause you gave me your Social Studies paper!” His voice is high and squeaky. “Not ‘cause… oh, crap. Can you just check my answers, please?” 

Again, Richie pats the space beside him, beaming. Eddie rolls his eyes for the second time, but he shucks off his ugly cagoule and clambers up onto the enormous bed anyway, positioning himself cross-legged beside Richie, flicking through the pages of his textbook. He does it in the way old ladies do when reading magazines, licking the tip of his finger first to separate the pages. Richie sits on his hands to stop them reaching out and touching him. 

“So, I’m pretty sure about what I got for number one and two,” Eddie says, blissfully unaware of how fucking crazy he’s driving Richie just by sitting a touch too close in his big dark blue jumper that his grandmother knitted him. It gives him a thin pink rash around his neck if he wears it too long, Richie knows, has seen the mark appear enough times, but Eddie refuses to accept that it itches him, or that wool might actually be the one thing he is allergic to. He loves his grandma to pieces, and wants to hold on to that perfect, untainted love in this peculiar way. Richie’s heart hurts. He holds a palm to his chest. “Rich?” Eddie asks, one eyebrow arched. “Did you… get this answer too?” 

Eddie has done his Biology homework mostly right. So it doesn’t take long to go through and check it all. It always takes longer than it should, because Richie gets easily distracted by everything all the time (Eddie is literally the only person in the world for which he would willingly force himself to work through a set of boring homework questions _that_ _he’s already done_ ), and prefers to liven the duller subjects up with a few carefully inserted jokes. 

It just so happens that Biology has a large repertoire of sex-related material. By the time they’re through, Eddie is blushing so hard that Richie’s fairly certain there’s no blood left in his hands or feet. This might be why he gets the idea to grab one of Eddie’s socked feet and pull it into his lap. 

“Richie, don’t!” Eddie yelps, attempting to tug free. “That’s so gross, you’re touching my dirty sock with your hand-”

Richie rolls his eyes and scrabbles his fingers on the underside of Eddie’s pristine white sock. “How dirty we talkin’, Eds?” He lifts the foot up to inspect it, then pokes his tongue out as if to lick it, making Eddie flail and kick his glasses off. “Ow! You little fucker.” 

The tickling intensifies then, starting with Eddie’s incredibly ticklish feet, then moving up to his sides and ribs - the classic tickle zone. Eddie scratches and hits and kicks and pleads, not fighting at all fair, but Richie doesn’t give in until Eddie winds a hand in his hair and tugs. It’s meant to hurt, probably, but it’s the exact way he did it when they were lip-locked a few days ago, and Richie falters, a shudder undulating through him at the memory. 

Noticing nothing amiss beneath him, Eddie is gasping for air, groaning hard. “My fucking ribs are killing me, you asshole.” 

That devious hand is still entrenched in his hair. Richie thinks about wrapping his own hand around it, urging the fist to close and tug again. Eddie is staring at him weirdly. Richie’s chin is on Eddie’s chest. 

“What?” Eddie asks, like he already knows the answer. 

Richie swallows involuntarily. “You got most of those answers right.”

“Yeah. Thanks for checking them over.” 

Richie’s mouth twitches at the corner. “You didn’t come here for me to check your Biology homework.” 

“Fuck you, yes I did.” 

Richie buries his face in Eddie’s chest, giggling. He shakes his head left and right; it’s nice to be able to do that without his glasses digging into his face. He doesn’t know where they went, but he doesn’t miss them. It’s easier to say certain things when you can’t see someone’s responding expression. 

“Tell me what you really want, Eds,” Richie says into Eddie’s jumper. He should ask Eddie’s grandma for one of these. They’re super soft. 

“Fuck off.” 

“This is my house.” Richie pitches himself up, hands braced beside Eddie’s shoulders, leaning over him. “You rode aaaall the way here,” he runs two of his fingers over Eddie’s chest in imitation, “to my house, to see me. To join me in my  _ boudoir _ -”

“Richie,” Eddie snaps, eyes flashing a warning. But it’s a blurry warning, so Richie finds it hard to care. “Shut up. I came here for help with Biology.” 

“Oooh okay baby, I can help you with some _biology_ ,” Richie quips, and Eddie kicks him. It’s light though, barely even painful. “Hot. Hit me again. Slap me. Pull my hair.”

_ Oops.  _

The last one was perhaps a slip. Eddie might raise an eyebrow. Or it might be the blur messing with his mind. 

“I hate you. Get off me. I need to go home.” 

Richie’s hands slide down to Eddie’s ribs again, fingers claw-like, poised to strike. “Are you sure…?” 

“Richie, don’t you fucking dare. I’ll have an asthma attack!” 

“Lucky for you I’m an  _ expert _ at the kiss of life.” 

Eddie brings his middle finger right up between Richie’s eyes, close enough to see. So, Richie shrugs, and tickles him. He wails and begs, wracked with spasms of uncontrollable, wheezing laughter. It’s all incredibly amusing, until he reaches up, grabs a chunk of Richie’s hair, yanks him downwards and smashes their mouths together. 

The kiss is probably equal parts painful and hot, which Eddie no doubt agrees with, judging by his little groan. For the sake of his own sanity, Richie has to tell himself the groan is born of pain and not… anything else. Eddie kisses him like he’s been thinking about it for days, like he’s been aching to get back at Richie’s big dumb mouth and shut it up with his own.  Richie kisses back like all of that might really be true, and these wild make out sessions aren’t the product of some kind of crazy three-time miracle brought about by Eddie’s desperation to fit in with the rest of the Losers, and the fact that Richie is a person that makes him feel safe. 

The one thing that doesn’t fit with that theory, though, is that Richie is by far the person Eddie rags on the most about his hygiene. He’s received countless lectures from Eddie about how it’s wrong to shower with only soap and not hypo-allergenic shampoo. He once made the mistake of telling Eddie he only flosses once a week, and nearly sent him into a panic attack. Eddie knows every disgusting habit he has, from turning his underwear inside out when he’s run out of clean pairs, to occasionally washing his pits in the bathroom sink after gym class to avoid the horror show that is the locker room showers. 

And yet, Eddie still willingly, and rather enthusiastically, chooses  _ him _ to swap spit with. It seems odd that Richie, of all people, would be the one that didn’t make Eddie gag and retch the moment their lips touched. But here they are, rolling around on Richie’s ridiculously big bed, Eddie’s tongue firmly inside Richie’s un-flossed mouth.  Daringly, Richie pushes a hand beneath the hem of that fluffy jumper, and Eddie reacts like he’s been shocked with static electricity. It spurs him on. His fingers find the edge of the t-shirt Eddie’s got on underneath, inching beneath that too, until finally he can feel the impossibly soft skin of Eddie’s tummy. Eddie’s beginning to make little fluttery noises as Richie’s fingers tickle - a very different kind of tickle - against him, so Richie would obviously rather die than stop. 

Eddie’s hands are still wound in his hair, pulling occasionally, which sends a fresh wave of tingles down the back of Richie’s neck each time. The fifth or sixth time this happens, Richie’s kissing ability stutters, and Eddie pulls him backwards by the grip he has in his hair to study his face.  Now is a time Richie once again wishes he has his glasses. He’s so sure that Eddie’s face is heart-stoppingly gorgeous right now. As it is, all he can really make out is pink-tinged skin, dark bullet hole eyes, and a wash of brunette waves ruffled over his jazzy, multi-coloured sheets. 

“You like it when I do that,” Eddie observes, his voice a choked back whisper. 

“What?” It comes as a mild surprise that Richie can speak at all. 

Eddie tightens his hold on the chunk of hair, and pulls hard. Richie’s eyes close, and he makes a gruff, throaty noise, involuntarily. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Yeah, you… can definitely keep doing that if you, uh. Want.” 

Again, Eddie uses the hold on his hair to pull him down into the kiss. Richie sighs against his mouth as the nerves at the top of his spine light up. He feels the connection begin to find its way from his straining hair follicles down to the heat already pooling in his groin, and knows it's only a matter of time before he’s going to have to shut this down or risk freaking Eddie out so bad he vaults out of the window two storeys to the garden. 

Eddie seems to have no similar ideas, judging by the sinful things his tongue is doing. Richie pulls back, and Eddie releases his hair quickly, suddenly rigid with worry. Richie only smiles, moves his attention down to Eddie’s jaw, baby soft and hairless still; Richie’s sure that Sonia’s intense mothering has stunted Eddie a little in terms of pubescence, not that it really matters. He’s a lot taller than he was at fourteen, though Richie would never admit this aloud, and he’s got muscles now, from the exercise - running, cycling, swimming - and from the constant anxiety keeping him perpetually taut with tension, probably. 

Richie runs his hand, appreciatively, over the definition of Eddie’s abdominal muscles, wishing he could rip the clothes out of the way and look for himself. Obviously he’s seen Eddie topless loads of times, swimming, or even on sweltering summer days, but it would feel vastly different in this context. Eddie might even let him press his mouth there, run his tongue along the valleys of his abs. For now, he busies himself with licking along the shell of Eddie’s ear. He should have known, maybe, that this would be a step too far for dear, squeamish Eddie Kaspbrak. 

“Oh my God, what are you- don’t! That’s so weird-” he sucks in a breath, hand stilling on Richie’s forehead where he’d been trying to push his face away. “O-oh. Um. Oh.”

Richie has taken Eddie’s earlobe between his teeth. His breath is fanning out over the back of Eddie's ear, down his neck. Richie follows it with a line of wet kisses; Eddie’s socked toes curl against one of Richie’s shins. 

“You like that,” Richie says, an echo of Eddie’s earlier comment. 

He licks up Eddie’s throat, neat and tentative, not sloppy as he would have liked, because this is  _ Eddie _ , after all. He lets out a soft puff of air over the spit-dampened shell of his ear, and Eddie whimpers, fingers curling in Richie’s shirt. 

“Rich- _ ie _ ,” he whines. 

God. Fuck. Richie is never going to be able to stop that sound from playing on repeat in his mind. He swallows, leaning back to look at him. 

“Y-yeah?”

“Kiss me,” Eddie pleads, like it’s something he needs to beg for. Like Richie wouldn’t tear off his own arm to press their lips together like this.  _ Hmm. Poor taste? _

Richie does kiss him, taking control this time, the crook of Eddie’s jaw cupped in one of his big hands. He presses his thumb at the joint, coaxing his mouth to open, and licks inside. He’s deliberate and slow, using every trick he knows to make Eddie come apart beneath him, and it fucking  _ works _ . Eddie squirms, hands fluttering across Richie’s neck, shoulders, and once - briefly, heavenly - skimming over the seat of his trousers, like he was thinking about grabbing hold. 

When Richie pulls away, Eddie is so wrecked that he doesn’t move, has sunk into the bed, his arm draped around Richie’s shoulders. “Fuck,” he murmurs, shivering once. 

Richie reaches out to the area around them, in search of his glasses. Eddie slots them onto his face for him, and finally Richie can see him in all his flushed, damp glory. Until Eddie flings his forearm over his face, groaning. 

“Don’t look at me,” he says, muffled, into the sleeve of his jumper. “I’m disgusting. You’ve dribbled all over me.”

Richie laughs, gently pulling his arm away. He’s sure the adoration is just cascading out of his eyes, choking the poor boy beneath him, but he can’t stopper it up. Eddie takes a moment to squint up at him, then he smiles too. His lips, reddened from all the friction, stretch wide. 

“You’re quite the looker, young Edward.” Richie’s Film Noir voice has made a reappearance, it would seem. He rolls off Eddie, careful to avoid brushing his boner against Eddie’s thigh, before he can make even more of a fool of himself. “Jawline for days. Waist you could close a fist around. Cocoa brown hair, and eyes dark enough to keep any guy guessing.” 

Eddie swats him. “Shut up,” he mumbles, embarrassed. 

“Did I ever tell you that Biology’s my favourite subject?” 

Eddie laughs, hands flying up to cover his face. “You are the worst.”

“Eds?” 

“Oh God,  _ what _ , you miscreant?”

“Is this… like, um. What is this?”

Eddie is silent for a moment. Richie doesn’t dare turn to face him. “I don’t know.” 

Richie nods. That’s fine. As long as both of them are stumbling blindly through the dark, they’re fine. They can hold hands. They’ll find their way. 

“Cool.”

“Cool?”

“Yeah. We don’t have to, like, label anything.”

“Yeah, right. Exactly. This is just a… thing. That keeps happening. No reason to… speculate.”

“Uh huh.”

They lapse into silence. Richie touches his pinky finger to Eddie’s, and Eddie doesn’t pull it away. A good sign. “You weren’t just saying that about my Biology answers, were you? I really did get them mostly right?”

“Holy crap, you  _ nerd _ ,” Richie says, laughing, “no, I wasn’t, shockingly, lying to get my hands on you quicker.”

“It did seem like you knew where this was headed,” Eddie comments, biting back his own laugh. 

“Eds, you’re not exactly subtle.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“You come here in the dead of night, sneak past your guard dog of a mother… to do homework you already knew how to do?”

Eddie is beet red when Richie turns to see. “Asshole. I’m going home now.” 

“Here all night if you change your mind,” Richie replies, winking as Eddie shuffles away from him. 

At the edge of the bed, he pauses. “Tempting,” he says, thoughtfully, then stands up, gathers the textbook and pad from where they’ve fallen to the floor while Richie has a mild heart attack on the bed. He shoves everything back in his bag, then uses Richie’s mirror to straighten out his hair a bit. It’s a pretty useless feat, considering all the rucking up it's had, so he gives up, turns back to Richie. “We should all do something this weekend,” he says. His face is radiating a soft, peachy glow. Richie has to stop himself from cupping his chin in his hands with a dopey smile, like he’s a cartoon character with love hearts pulsing in his eyes instead of pupils. “Ride up to the quarry and have a picnic like we used to. I heard it’s gonna be sunny.” 

Richie raises his eyebrows. “Look at you making plans. It’s like Billiam himself is standing before me.” 

Eddie laughs, sweet and soft, even though it wasn’t that funny. Richie’s eyebrows knit together, but it’s not out of concern, more of curiosity. Eddie seems buoyant, light. Happy. So unlike his usual grumpy, exasperated state of being. Richie’s skin prickles. Is this what half an hour of macking will do for the kid? Lift him out of his leaden anxiety boots for a while? Make him all syrupy and smiley? If so, Richie’s never gonna get off him. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“For Biology,” Richie agrees solemnly. 

Eddie’s face hardens, though the glow is still there. 

“What? It’s the first class we have together tomorrow.” 

Eddie just sighs, waving over his shoulder as he heads for Richie’s bedroom door. 


	4. Chapter 4

The Bev bombshell is dropped the next morning before Richie has even fully woken up. He’s a bit young to be addicted to caffeine, he knows, but when your suspected ADHD keeps you up half the night doing last minute assignments, coffee is essential to get through the day. He’s nursing his cup of java, snuck into the school cafeteria via his dad’s thermos, and listening fondly to Eddie’s lecture about the dangers of said caffeine addiction, when Ben bounds over, an excited springer spaniel, eyes alight with something that can only be Bev-related. 

“Guys!” he exclaims. “Bev’s coming home for the weekend!” 

“Again?” Bill asks, frowning. Beside him, Audra, his latest girlfriend, wears a tense smile at the news. “She was just here.” 

Ben shoots him a dirty look. “Yeah, well I don’t think she’s having a particularly great time out in another state with her pedophile father. Sue her if she wants to get away whenever she can.” 

Bill raises an eyebrow, but says nothing, choosing to turn his attention back to Audra. She looks relieved. Richie, on the other hand, is elated at the news. He adores that sparky little wildflower. And what’s more, she lives so far from them all that it’s conceivable he could share some of his recent… news with her. Because keeping all of this Eddie stuff a secret is starting to drive him slowly nuts. Normally, he'd confide in Eddie, his best friend and forced listening companion, about something that takes up this much of his brain-space. But for obvious reasons, this is not viable, so that brain-space is steadily shrinking in size, the walls threatening to burst. He’s petrified his big, dumb mouth will just blurt it out in random scenarios, given that it seems to have no filter most of the time. Not ideal considering it’s almost certain that Eddie would definitely never speak to him again if he did, let alone anything… else.

“Awesome!” Richie says, funneling his enthusiasm into the word as best he can given that he’s running on four hours sleep. “When’s she getting here?” 

“She’s catching the last Greyhound out of the city,” Ben explains, “so she’ll be in Derry early Saturday morning. I’m going to meet her at the bus station.” His developing pecs puff out a little as he says this last part.

“Eddie was thinking we could all go to the quarry on Saturday,” Richie mentions, slurping coffee. 

“Has Eddie lost the ability to speak?” Mike asks, chuckling. 

Eddie hits Richie in the shoulder, quite unfairly, Richie thinks. “Let me talk for myself, asshole.” 

Richie grumbles, rubbing his shoulder, but says nothing. Stan, enthused by the idea of a day trip, jumps in fast. “We could pool our pocket money and load up on snacks at 7/11. We could spend all day there.” 

“I’m bringing sun block,” Eddie says. 

“I’ll massage it on for you,” Richie says immediately, and Eddie hits him again. 

“Audra’s invited too, right guys?” Bill asks, arm around the girl in question. 

She blushes. “Oh, that’s okay, Billy. I’ve got plans. Mom’s taking me and Lily to get a pedicure.” 

There’s no mistaking the chagrin on Bill’s face. He’s probably thinking about how he’s going to get through an entire day of staring at Ben and Bev splashing each other in their bathing suits, sneaking lustful looks at one another’s wet, semi-naked bodies, and making gooey faces in the idyllic setting. 

“Stan, will you bring your binoculars? I wouldn’t wanna miss out on seeing a cockatoo,” Richie says. 

“Cockatoos are native to Australasia, so it’s highly unlikely that- oh, shut up, Richie.” 

Richie has begun miming what he deems to be a very funny hunt for a cock-or-two around and underneath the table. Eddie is snorting with laughter, so it’s gotta be at least passable. 

*

Bev arrives with no bags, which means no bathing suit. Luckily, Ben supplies her with one of his old t-shirts, which she wears over a pair of white panties and nothing else. The way the enormous shirt hangs over her tiny frame is actually quite sexy, and if Richie weren’t currently besotted with his own perpetually cross, moody midget, he's sure he might have developed an interest. 

Judging by the stares Bev is attracting from half the Losers club however, his attention is not even slightly missed. Instead, he’s quite content to watch Eddie smearing copious amounts of thick, strong-smelling sun cream over his already pink face, and teasing him about the tight little swim shorts he’s wearing that expose an unfairly large area of creamy, defined thigh. It’s an unusually warm day for this time of year, and after a long bike ride over here, each of them taking turns with Bev on their handlebars, everyone is boiling, so they’re in their trunks and speedos before the towels are laid out on the rocks. 

“Last one in the water is Eddie’s mom’s pussy!” Richie shrieks, scooping Eddie into his arms as he hurtles towards the water. 

Eddie screams like he’s being murdered, but Richie ignores him, throwing him in ahead before bombing into the serene pool of water below. When he surfaces, Eddie is livid and spluttering, so Richie has to spend a good minute being nearly drowned as Eddie repeatedly and diligently dunks him under to relieve the anger, but after that he cools off, so it’s fine. Eddie likes being in the water, though he’d probably never admit it outright. His tense limbs become loose and willowy; his strong swimmer instincts allow him to glide through the water without difficulty. He’s probably taught himself to swim through sheer panic, but it’s given him an affinity that none of the others can quite match. 

“Eds, climb up,” Richie calls, having successfully coerced Bill and Mike into a game of chicken. “We’ve got some jokers to absolutely  _ wreck _ .” 

Eddie barks a laugh, his lean arms slicing through the water as he pulls closer. Richie’s heart pulses and contracts; Eddie’s arms wind around his neck, his strong frog-legs hitching themselves up around his waist. 

“Stay still,” Eddie laughs as he clambers up Richie like a tree, monkey-feet finding ledges in Richie’s bony frame, until he’s slotted himself on Richie’s shoulders, wet thighs either side of his ears. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

Richie narrows his eyes at Bill, now the pedestal of the Mike statue towering above him. “Game on, Billiards.” 

The game is best of three, like always. Eddie immediately wins the first round, scrappy little fucker that he is, but gets too cocky as always, and loses his balance when Bill de-stables Richie with a crafty kick to the shin in the second round. Eddie wobbles, and then Mike strikes for the final blow, shoving Eddie off to the side. As he falls, he scrabbles for a hold on Richie’s head and winds up pulling at his hair, which is just not cool for all sorts of reasons. Richie has to dunk himself underwater to gather control and will his chub away. 

The final round is judged by Bev, Stan, and Ben, all watching from their sunbathing spots atop the rockface. Those three always get bored of the water quickly, much preferring to soak up the sun’s rays than splash about being prats with the others. Still, they’re happy to watch and laugh at the antics still going on in the water. It’s a close call, with Eddie’s aggressive, barely legal tactics and Mike’s devious ploys, but eventually Eddie, using Richie’s ears as reins to direct him how he wants, gets the victory shove in, sending Mike toppling backwards so hard that Bill falls with him. 

Richie attempts a victory lap of the lake with Eddie still on his shoulders, but only ends up inhaling at least three lungfuls of vaguely disgusting water. At last, they crawl out, shivering on their brisk walk back to their towels. Eddie lays his down next to Richie and sprawls out, leaning back on his elbows, droplets glinting all over his bare skin, making him sparkle. Richie swallows hard, digs a fingernail that needs trimming into his palm. 

“We should hike over to the woods,” Bev says after a while. Her voice is like syrup, warmed by the sun. Richie’s whole chest feels hot and tingly; he lies back on his towel and closes his eyes, letting the heat crawl into his bones. “We haven’t done that in so long.” 

“Are you wearing sun block?” Eddie asks, sounding suspicious. A shadow falls over Richie’s face. “Richie.” Eddie smacks him in the shoulder. “Richie, you’re gonna burn.” 

“Hey, yeah!” Mike exclaims. “I bet it's boiling in the clubhouse today though. D’you think our little outdoor camp is still there?”

“I don’t remember an outdoor camp,” Ben says. 

A smile tugs at the corner of Richie’s mouth. “That’ll be ‘cause you and Eds always bailed to go study in the library whenever the five of us trekked out there- ahh! Fuck, Eddie!”

A dollop of icy cold cream has splattered across his chest. Richie sits up, staring down at the globs of white smeared across him. 

“You could’ve waited to creampie me, you little shit!” 

Eddie just digs his fingers into the midst of the mess, determinedly smearing the goo all over Richie’s chest and shoulders. His face is pinched and concentrated, as if he’s folding his laundry. It’s such a bizarre and intimate touch, especially in the light of recent events, that Richie is a little stunned it’s even happening.  The others just snigger, not seeing anything other than Eddie being a hypochondriac control freak. So Richie just lies down, hands behind his head, and lets out an exaggerated ‘aaaah’. 

“Ooh, right there, Eds. That’s juuuust how your mom does it-”

Eddie pinches, hard and vicious, right beneath his nipple. The sun cream never gets fully rubbed in after that, but Eddie gets a fair amount more applied to his pasty skin, so it’s a win-win. 

*

Out of town, where the endless, unfarmed fields of dead grass eventually bump against the forest edge, is a dilapidated, moth-eaten couch that two-thirds of the Losers had once hauled from a street corner. Also a matching, equally grim armchair. A patch of earth, in front of the couch, is scorched barren from the campfires the five kids used to huddle around in the dwindling warmth of post-summer evenings past.  It had been a place, out of the way, for them to come and smoke pot, and drink, and steal into the cover of the trees in an attempt to replace their very real, harrowing fear of the supernatural, with something more manageable: darkness, swaying branches, and the unlikely possibility of axe-murderers lurking within. 

Eddie and Ben had never visited this make-do campsite, mostly because their choice of coping mechanism after That Summer had been to bury themselves alive in schoolwork instead of drugs and alcohol. But also, the campsite had never really lasted long as a hangout spot, partly because it was a helluva trek even from The Barrens, and also because the weather turned nasty, so Ben’s underground, rain and cold proof bunker inside of the forest was the preferable choice. 

Honestly, Richie had forgotten all about that sagging couch and chair until Bev brought it up, so his heart gives a pang of nostalgic whimsy as he catches sight of the threadbare old friends after a good half hour hike up a steady incline of derelict fields. He launches himself onto the couch the moment it’s in range, remembering as his ass hits the jagged springs just why this crappy thing was probably thrown to the kerb in the first place. It’s dry though, mercifully, thanks to the finally cooperative sunshine, so Richie spreads out like a basking cat, and waits for the others to approach. 

“I am  _ not _ sitting on that thing,” Eddie says, nose wrinkled. 

For obvious reasons, this is a mindset that must be changed. “Fear not, my liege, your precious tush will not have to touch these age-old fibres.” 

Richie jumps up from the couch and snags Bill’s towel, then Stan’s, then Eddie's, and lays them, along with his own, over the couch. Eddie rolls his eyes, but doesn’t get a chance to voice the protestations no doubt still rolling around his mind because Richie pulls him onto the couch, practically into his lap. Honestly, it’s worth the kicks, the shouts, the glasses being yanked off his face and hurled into the woods behind them. 

“What's the point of this place, exactly?” Ben asks, walking back over with Richie’s glasses in hand. 

Richie takes them gratefully, having finally wrestled Eddie into submission beneath his arm, his legs curled beneath him onto the towels so that none of his skin touches the sofa. Bev shoots him an amused look as she grapples for a response to Ben’s question. 

“Err…” She flops back on the armchair, giggling. 

“You ready to play with the big kids, Benzo?” Richie asks, winking coyly. 

“Let me guess,” Eddie says dryly, “playing with the big kids involves marijuana.” 

“Bingo, my little nutcracker,” Richie says, pressing a wet, smacking kiss to the top of Eddie’s head. He of course makes disgusted noises and performs a half-hearted attempt to struggle free, but gives up too quickly for Richie to take it seriously. “Bev,” he calls, eyebrows wiggling at her, “I presume you have brought the sustenance?” 

She snorts, digging in one of her oversized jacket’s pockets. “S’not like you’d ever buy your own, jack-off.” 

The box she holds up is too big to contain a simple dime bag and rolling papers. Richie squints at it through glasses dirtied from the forest floor. Mike stands from where he and Bill have been crouched, arranging kindling they’ve scoured the surrounding area for in a neat pile. He holds out his hand for the box, and Bev lets him take it, a smug grin already on her face. 

“Wo-ahhh,” Mike says once he pries open the lid of the box and gets a look at whatever’s inside. Bill stands to peer over his shoulder; when his eyebrows shoot up as well, Richie knows it must be good. “Bev, dude, you are so fucking awesome.”

“Oh come on, you’re killin’ us over here!” Richie calls out; in any other scenario, he’d be jumping up and snatching the thing to see for himself, but Eddie is on the verge of extricating himself from Richie’s octopus embrace, so he has to remain still for now, until he’s settled. 

“Uh, not ‘us’,” Eddie corrects, arms folded, “just you. I’m perfectly fine without any mystery drugs over here.” 

“Show me what Sister Marsh has smuggled across the borders for us, brethren,” Richie demands, ignoring Eddie’s grumbling. 

Mike flashes Richie a grin, angling the box so he can see. Inside, there is smoking paraphernalia, of course: some papers, a grinder, about $20 worth of weed in a baggy. But beside all that are what appear to be coin sized chocolate truffles, about twenty or more. Richie furrows his brow. He even feels Eddie leaning in a bit closer to look. 

“Edibles,” Mike says, sharing an excited look with Bill. “Right, Bev?”

“Got ‘em off my new pal Jeremy Forster,” she says, already in the process of rolling a joint, using her skirt as a surface. “He’s my school’s token rebel. Bumped around foster kid. Sells weed and ritalin to afford taking his twenty-five year old girlfriend on dates to Red Lobster and the Cherry Tree Motel every weekend.” 

“Lucky girl,” Ben says, perched on the edge of Bev’s armchair, watching her roll with obvious trepidation. “Does Jeremy give you these gifts free of charge?”

“You mean is Jeremy Forster looking to wine and dine me in the same extravagant way?” Bev asks, eyes locked to Ben’s as she licks a line along the edge of the paper. He blushes, dutifully, and crosses his legs as he turns away. “No, man. He’s sweet on his older gal. I buy my weed choccies fair ‘n square.” 

Richie raises an eyebrow at her; she winks. Fair and square his ass. No girl that looks like Bev ever gets a deal that doesn’t include a few extra ‘choccies’ thrown in, if you ask him. 

“So, are we all gonna eat one?” Bill asks, plucking one of the chocolates out to inspect it. 

“I think I’ll just smoke,” Bev says.

“Yeah, the calories,” Richie agrees solemnly. 

He and Bev lock eyes again, privately sharing an amused secret. The secret is, of course, that edibles get you  _ fucked up _ . The last time Richie ingested such a product - half a space cake that he and Bev had shared, alone - they had stumbled around for hours as if they were wading through a swamp of treacle, barely able to hear one another over the slow drum of their heartbeats. Richie remembers leaning down to tie Bev’s shoe, which he couldn’t help fretting was unlaced, and somersaulting headfirst in a never-ending tumble for what seemed like days. Bev had later told him that she’d been wearing flats with no laces. It hadn’t been  _ bad _ exactly, and they still laugh so hard at the memory whenever they look back on it together that they end up with stitches, but it’s not an experience Richie is dying to repeat. 

Watching the others blow their sensibilities out of their brains, however, is definitely something Richie is game for. Judging by Bev’s expression, she’s having similar thoughts. So, Ben, Bill, Mike, and Stan - who has wandered back into the clearing after an impromptu bird-seeking walk through the trees - sit around the fire on their towels and share two edibles between them. Mike and Bill take a bite each of one, and Ben and Stan share the other.  These things take a while to kick in, Richie recalls, so just grins to himself, already a little stoned from the joint he and Bev are passing back and forth, as the four newbies complain that they can’t feel anything at all. Richie half-heartedly tries, of course, to interest Eddie in the joint he’s delighting in, but is unsurprisingly not met with more than a cursory ‘fuck off’. 

“I have asthma, Richie,” Eddie reminds him with an eye roll. 

“Shame. I think you’d like being stoned,” Richie says, sinking back into the couch. His heart flips over, then handsprings back like a goddamned trapeze artist, as Eddie leans with him, like he’s not thinking about it, like he’s drawn into Richie’s gross sweaty underarm. “You’re a skittish little thing. Don’t get me wrong, it’s part of your charm,” he stops to blow out a stream of smoke; Eddie watches closely, “but I think it’d be nice for you if you could switch it off for a few hours, y’know?” 

He doesn’t really know what he’s saying. It only occurs to him when he leans over to pass the joint back to Bev, that Eddie hasn’t fired back some pissy retort. He turns, the movement sluggish and slow, to suss out Eddie’s expression. He’s expecting fury, but only sees a genuine consideration there, alongside the usual anxiety. 

“You really think I’d like it?” Eddie asks, quiet enough that only Richie can hear now. Or at least it seems that way, but then Richie’s slipping into the realm of reallyfuckingstoned, so he can’t be sure that Eddie isn’t yelling at the top of his lungs. 

He crooks his best _‘it’s just me your trusty old pal Richie_ ’ smile, and nods. “Yeah, cutie. Gobble up one o’those chocs if you wanna keep your lungs all functional and you’ll see what I mean.” 

It happens too quickly for Richie’s gloopy, weed-hazy brain to properly understand, or object to. First, Eddie is gnawing that plush, peony pink lower lip of his, which tugs painfully at all sorts of places below Richie’s waist, and then he’s springing up off the old couch to retrieve the box of chocolates, taking one out as gingerly as if it’s a live grenade, and, with a thumb and forefinger pinching his nostrils shut, shoving it in his mouth. He chews quickly, eyes screwed shut, and swallows around a gag. 

Speechless from awe, Bill hands over one of the bottles of water they picked up at 7/11 on their way out to the quarry, which Eddie takes gratefully, and chugs half of. Richie sits up slowly, not entirely sure he didn’t hallucinate that entire thing, and turns to Bev. They share a matching look of horror, hands gripping the arms of their respective seats. 

Richie swallows hard. Eddie had eaten the whole thing. An entire chocolate, all to himself. 

*

“I’m gonna die.”

“You are not gonna die, Eds. Nobody has ever died from too much weed.”

Eddie fixes Richie with a wild-eye. “You don’t know that. How could you know that?!” 

“He’s right,” Bev calls, now upside down in her chair, finishing off the joint. “Think about it, Eddie. You ever hear of a marijuana overdose?” 

Eddie chews his lip, but does look slightly appeased. Arm locked around Eddie’s trembling shoulders, Richie shoots Bev a grateful look. Most of their conversations seem to be non-verbal these days. He loves that girl to pieces. But that could be the weed talking.

“What’s gonna happen to me,” Eddie asks, voice sombre, like he’s about to undergo some sort of torture. “Am I gonna hallucinate?” 

Richie fights back a laugh, squeezing Eddie’s shoulder tightly. “No more than normal, hot pants.” 

He looks at Richie expectantly. “And?” 

“Uh, you’re gonna feel… very relaxed.” Richie smiles, already picturing it. “You’re gonna wanna sink your whole pert little ass into this couch, I’d imagine.” 

“Ew, I am absolutely never going to want to do that.”

“Listen, Eddie baby,” Richie starts, slapping a friendly hand over Eddie’s mouth to stop the roar of protest at the nickname, “it’s too late for backtracking now. You’ve plucked the fruit from the tree. You’ve thrown the bathwater out infant-first. The only thing you can do now, is try to enjoy it.” 

“ _ Enjoy _ an extended drug trip that’s twice as potent as everyone else’s?” 

“I will, valiantly, take one for the team and smoke my lungs black to get on your level, Eds.” 

Eddie just gives him a withering look. “How long do I have before it kicks in?” 

Richie shrugs, glancing at his watch. The numbers are incomprehensible hieroglyphics at this point. “Dunno. Do you feel any different yet?” 

Eddie’s next exhale is shaky. “No. Is that weird? Am I not reacting the way normal people do? Is it ‘cause of my cacao intolerance?!”

Beside the fire, Bill snorts with laughter. He’s laid on his back with Mike’s head in his lap, Richie notices with vague interest. The other guys, excluding he and Eddie, don’t tend to get overly tactile with each other. It’s kind of nice to see some physical affection going on down by the campfire, even if it is pot induced. 

“That right there, my dear Eds, is the dreaded paranoia side-effect your mom and teachers warned you about,” Richie explains in a calm monotone. “Just ignore it, kay? It’ll die down if you keep telling yourself you’re good. Then you can enjoy the nice part.” 

Eddie swallows, muttering under his breath something that sounds like “I’m good, I’m not gonna die, I’m good, I’m good, I’m not gonna die…” 

Richie tucks Eddie more firmly under his arm; he seems all too willing to go. “Shh,” he mutters, quiet enough for Eddie’s ears only. “I gotcha. You’re safe on the nice squishy couch with ol’ Richie.” 

“The gross couch,” Eddie replies in a small, scared voice. His fingers wind into the loose folds of Richie’s t-shirt. “Don’t leave, okay?” 

“And miss Eddie K’s first foray into the wonderful world of narcotics? As if.” 

Eddie falls silent then, possibly experiencing the first tentative effects of the weed slowing his heart rate, making time crawl. After a few minutes, or maybe more, Bev says his name, and Richie tears his eyes from the sight of Eddie’s stoically blank profile, half-buried in Richie’s side.  She’s holding out a newly rolled joint. He takes it gratefully, nodding in thanks. As he sucks down a much needed lungful, he notes the four boys by the fire beginning to wobble to their feet. They help each other up, deep in a conversation that looks incredibly important, though Richie’s brain can’t or won’t make out any words exchanged between them. Then, Ben turns to the couch and armchair, a serious expression dressing his handsome features. Out of the corner of his eye, Richie sees Bev crooking a smile. 

“Stan has some starling babies to show us,” Ben informs them; Mike, Stan and Bill nod behind him in agreement. “In the oak tree a few minutes down the hiking trail.”

Bev arches an eyebrow. “In the woods?” 

Thoroughly amused by this sudden performance, Richie hands the joint back to Bev, grinning widely at the four boys. Judging by the worried, tentative looks on their faces, they’re asking for permission to go. 

“Now, now, fellas,” Richie says in his best Dad-voice, “if Stan were to jump off a cliff, would you do it too?”

“Let them go,” Eddie mumbles into his shoulder. “I don’t want them to watch me freak out.” 

A twinge appears in the vicinity of Richie’s heart. He heaves a sigh, exchanging a look of parental suffering with Bev. “Alright,” he booms. “I suppose you’re old enough to go off on your own for a while. But stick to the path. And be back in time for supper or your mother over there-” he gestures at Bev “-will spank each and every one of you.” He pauses. “And I can’t promise that only Ben will like it.” 

Bev barks a laugh, eyes sparkling. “He’s not kidding, boys. Back in half an hour or there’ll be trouble.” 

They all wave distantly as they trundle off, all four of them in a line like they’re fucking Winnie The Pooh characters heading off for the day’s adventure. Richie turns to share his amusement with Eddie, but finds him to be looking in the opposite direction, eyes unfocused, mouth slightly parted. 

“Eds? You okay there?” 

Eddie turns his head on Richie’s shoulder, a wan smile gracing his pink mouth. “Yep. Yep. I am… hmm. Calm.” 

Richie smiles, broad and stupendously relieved. “Yeah? You wanna cuddle?” 

He waits for the inevitable slap to the head, but instead, somewhat mortifyingly, Eddie jumps at the opportunity to wriggle closer, fitting himself firmly into Richie’s side. He sighs, contentedly, and rests a hand on Richie’s chest. 

“This is nice,” he murmurs. 

Heat is pooling in various places throughout Richie’s body. His underarms. His thighs. His chest, which throbs like its bruising. Eddie isn’t pulling away. Has the weed melted away all of his inhibitions? Does he not remember where they are?  Eddie’s hand slides downwards, until it finds Richie’s. He presses their palms together, and doesn’t say anything about the clamminess. He must be really out of it. 

“Your hands are so huge,” Eddie marvels. 

It’s true, in comparison to Eddie’s fairy-sized fingers, the circumference of Richie’s broad, long hands seem laughably big. But then Bev’s hands would probably dwarf Eddie’s. He’s got doll-like proportions, and that’s probably half of why he’s so goddamn pissy all the time. 

“You know what they say,” Richie’s mouth says, going for the obvious joke without thinking about it. “Big hands, big... vagina.” 

Eddie snorts. “You don’t have a vagina.” 

“How would you know?”

“Because I’ve felt your boner digging into my thigh.”

He says it into Richie’s shirt, barely audible through his own giggle, but Richie still, embarrassingly, feels his cheeks dial up a good two degrees. He prays that Bev is zoned out enough that she lacks her usual supersonic hearing. 

“You little shit,” Richie says in a breath of his own mildly hysterical laughter. His heart is dancing la cucaracha in his chest. “That was only ‘cause you smell like your mom’s peony shampoo.” 

Eddie lifts his head suspiciously, eyes all squinty and cute. “How’d you know what shampoo mommy and I use?” 

“Oh my  _ God _ , Eds,” Richie says, fondly. 

He can’t stop himself from tracing the line of Eddie’s nose, from the soft hairs between his eyebrows, all the way to the tiny, snub end of it, no bigger than an olive pip. Instead of complaining about Richie’s unwashed hands on his face, Eddie rewards him with a slow, easy grin. Richie can’t look away. 

“You’re blushing,” Eddie points out.

“It’s my healthy summer glow.”

“It’s April.” 

“Shut the fuck up, peony-head.”

Eddie’s eyes are half-lidded; he’s still grinning. He looks so much like the dictionary definition of a totally stoned dude that Richie almost calls for Bev to look. But then Eddie makes a joke. An actual  _ joke _ . 

“ _ Peony _ -wise,” he says, slack mouth barely able to form the word. 

Richie laughs so hard he almost cries, which also seems like an appropriate response. None of the other Losers ever have the guts to make jokes about It. Just another bullet point in the endless list of reasons Richie Tozier loves Eddie Kaspbrak. 

“Yeah, yeah, love you too, dork.”

Richie flicks his eyes to Eddie. Shit, had he said that out loud? He swivels to Bev, who is lost, as he suspected, in the cloud of smoke she has cloaked herself in, slumped across the chair in what to most might appear a very uncomfortable position. 

“It happens to me too, y’know,” Eddie says conversationally, back in the crook of Richie’s underarm. Unfortunate, really, that Richie has long ago lost the thread of the conversation. “Not surprising, I guess, given that you’re usually on top of me.”

Richie chokes on nothing. “Excusez-moi, monsieur?” 

“I dunno why you never felt mine before,” Eddie muses, eyes fixed on some faraway object across the field. “Maybe you were too distracted.” 

Richie can feel  _ everything _ , suddenly. The buzzing atoms that make up the air brush against his skin, pulling up rows of goosebumps. The warmth of the day seeping gradually out of the sky and soil. The breeze that none of them had minded earlier folding into a gentle chill. Like he’s heard, Eddie burrows closer, pulling the towel he’s sat on around his bare legs. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Eddie asks, whispering now. His eyes are alight with mischief. He resembles a fae, out here, with the trees beyond, the vermillion firelight flickering against his cheek. Richie nods, mute. “Sometimes, on the nights you sneak into my house, after you leave…” Eddie’s eyes fall, briefly, to Richie’s mouth. They flick away again quickly enough, but it’s still enough to give Richie a heart palpitation. Eddie giggles, pulling the flap of Richie’s shirt over his mouth. “...I think about you.”

“Uh, yeah, well. I’m a fascinating guy, Eds-”

“No.” Eddie’s eyes are dark. If Richie stares in deep, he can see the flames of the fire dancing. “I think about your face. Your long, girly lashes.” He smirks, and a retort is on the tip of Richie’s tongue, but he doesn’t get it out in time. “And how they go all fluttery when I pull your hair.” 

Richie swallows hard. “Never knew I was into horseplay until you yanked on the mane.” 

“I think about your mouth,” Eddie goes on, like Richie hadn’t spoken. He’s vaguely aware that their faces are a touch too close to be considered normal to the outside observer. His mind spirals away for a moment, composing excuses for each of the Losers when they query this intimate position they’re bound to find so odd. But then Eddie pulls him right back. “I think about how you kiss me, like you’re so desperate for it. How your fingers find any place where they can rest against my skin.” 

Richie’s mouth has gone dry. He couldn’t speak now if he wanted to. The world is falling away. They’re adrift on a gross, slightly slimy couch in the middle of a void, and Richie would give anything at all to never plummet back to reality. 

“I use my hands,” Eddie explains, forlorn as he demonstrates, stroking over his own chest in a decidedly downward direction. Richie catches hold of his hand, hissing through his teeth, and tries to summon the strength to look away, to check that Bev isn’t getting thoroughly weirded out behind them, but Eddie is staring at Richie’s hand in his like he’s seconds away from gobbling it up. “It’s never as good as your hands,” Eddie whispers. Dumbed with desire, Richie lets Eddie splay his fingers out over the steady drum of his heartbeat. “I always imagine it’s your hands.”

“Fuck.” The word forces its way out like a hiccup. “Eddie, we gotta get high together again sometime. Alone.” 

Eddie’s next smile is soupy, lazy. His head tilts upwards against Richie’s shoulder, so their eyes can meet. “But we’re alone together now.”

Richie laughs, thinking he’s joking. But then Eddie leans in, mouth soft and warm and open, and it would have taken a man a lot stronger, and a lot less stoned, than Richie to resist. He lets Eddie kiss him, sweet and delicious, all tenderness and slick lips, the faint taste of the chocolatey edible on his tongue.  It’s an awkward angle, so Eddie breaks away after a moment, huffing a satisfied sigh and snuggling back down into Richie’s arm. Richie sits still for a while, utterly unmoving, but then he makes himself turn. Bev is watching him, eyes fixed through the haze of smoke that might be from a joint, or the fire. 

He swallows, terror clawing at him from all sides, stomach freely flipping as he waits for a sign of her disgusted reaction. But she simply lifts an eyebrow, and with it, the very corner of her mouth in a slight smirk. She doesn’t recoil, or puke, or shout some slur. And in the next moment, Richie is almost ashamed that he ever thought she would. Bev is a nymph, a higher being, unweighted by the constrictions of society and expectation. She would never judge him for something as… trivial as wanting this boy beside him, in ways that a thousand things tell him he shouldn’t.  Eventually, it becomes clear that Eddie is asleep. Ben wanders back into the clearing first, his t-shirt hanging slightly off one shoulder. Bev reaches for him, pouting, and he goes to her as if she is the light at the end of his tunnel vision. 

Stan follows after, marching over to the fire with the type of gait that tells Richie he’s had enough of whatever shenanigans went on during their impromptu hike. The reason for Stan’s briskness is quickly provided when Mike and Bill stumble into view, draped over one another, giggling like lunatics.  They settle back into their spots around the dwindling fire that nobody can quite be bothered to stoke, and strike up a dumb conversation about superheroes and the likelihood of one defeating another in various scenarios. 

Time creeps by without them noticing, begrudging and slow, but after a while they all begin to notice the cool evening shadows glossing over them. In his unconscious state, Eddie shivers, and Richie has the first clear thought he’s had in hours: it’s late. They should head home.


	5. Chapter 5

Their cycle ride home is quiet. All seven of them exude weariness, like a blanket draped over their collective shoulders. Ben valiantly perches Bev on his handlebars for the whole journey, his breaths coming thick and short as his stocky thighs pump the pedals.  Richie keeps a hand on Eddie’s handlebars, keeping him steady, as his eyelids are drooping, making him wobble. They reach the turn-off to Mike’s uncle’s farm first; he swerves into it with only a wave tossed over his shoulder. Bill is the only one of them that can muster a ‘bye’. Eddie’s house is the next one, 16 Lobelia Avenue, an address that has been stamped across Richie’s brain for years; Eddie doesn’t seem to recognise it on his own, so Richie brakes hard, making Eddie slow and stop in confusion. He looks up at his house, glumly, and takes a deep breath. 

“See you tomorrow, guys,” he mumbles. 

“On M-Monday, you mean?” Bill asks.

But Eddie is already walking his bike up the path cutting through his overgrown lawn. Richie lets go of his bike’s handlebars, letting it fall onto the fringe of grass just beyond the sidewalk. 

“I’ll just check he’s ok,” he tells the others with a wave of his hand. Bev sends him a knowing look that he ignores. “See you guys. I’ll come over to Ben’s tomorrow morning before you ditch again, Bev.”

The others all grumble out their farewells, then cycle off into the night. Richie jogs after Eddie, who is approaching his front door with obvious trepidation. 

“Hey, wait up!” Richie calls in a whisper. “Your mom and I scheduled a booty call, can you let me in?” 

“Fuck off, Rich,” Eddie says tiredly. He leans his bike up against the side of the house. The front wheel swivels towards him. “She’s gonna be pissed enough that I’m so late. Can’t let her see you, she’ll freak.”

“Wait,” Richie says, catching his wrist. It’s tiny enough that he can wrap his whole hand around it, thumb to forefinger base knuckle. “You feelin’ okay? Has it worn off?”

Eddie is staring at the spot Richie’s hand touches his skin. “Did I…” he pauses, thinking hard. “Did I tell you…?”

“What?” Richie hides a smile. “That I’m a frequent guest spot in your dirtiest daydreams?” 

Eddie’s eyes fall closed and a distraught expression flickers onto his weary features. “Fuck. Rich, I’m sorry, I didn’t know what I was-”

“Hey, hey, it’s all good,” Richie interrupts, unable to resist pulling him in for a hug. He sounds so dismayed. If only he knew the things his own dreamed-up version of Eddie got up to in the small hours. “I’ve already forgotten, kay? 

“Kay,” Eddie replies after a moment, nose still buried in Richie’s chest. 

He sniffs, so Richie holds him tighter. “Did you hate it?” 

Eddie sighs; a warm patch just over Richie’s heart. “No. It was like you said. My mind shut up for once in its life.” A pause, Richie struggling not to say something smug about being right. “Just sucks that I apparently turn into a no-filter sex maniac when I’m stoned.”

“Eds, that does not suck  _ at all _ ,” Richie assures him, which makes him laugh. He pulls out of Richie’s hug then, and for the first time, Richie notices it’s pretty cold. He looks down at Eddie, realising that somewhere along the way, he’d taken off his shirt and put it on Eddie. His heart squeezes; Eddie doesn’t seem to notice he’s wearing it and he’s sure as hell not gonna bring it up. “Hop inside then, you stoner.” 

Eddie quirks him a tired smile. “See you Monday.” 

“If you can lay off the drugs that long, jeez.” 

Eddie laughs, then squares his shoulders - quite funny to watch in Richie’s oversized Hawaiian shirt - and turns to face his front door. Richie wishes he could stay and watch until the door closes behind him, but he knows if Sonia caught him out here, Eddie would be in even worse trouble. So he backs up, waving when Eddie tosses a last, resigned look over his shoulder, then picks up his bike and steals away into the night. The hum of excitement that has been going strong ever since Eddie peeled off his polo shirt at the quarry jolts as he replays the evening in his mind. His dreamscape is in for a serious Eddie invasion when he gets home. 

*

Ben lives fairly close by, so Richie makes it over there by eleven on Sunday. Considering he usually makes a point of sleeping in until at least noon on weekends, this is pretty impressive. When he pulls up, Bev is leant up against Ben’s cute little picket fence, smoking lazily. She smiles when she sees him. 

“Bout time,” she calls as he sidles over, skin already prickling with the want for a cigarette. “You just get up, bedhead?” 

Richie runs a hand through his mane. “I was gussying up for ya. We can’t all look fresh and rosy first thing in the morning, Marsh.”

“It’s almost midday.”

“Quit ragging on me, would’ja? It’s the day of the Lord.” 

She grins, grinding the last of her cigarette out with her heeled boot. “Come on then,” she says, pushing off the fence. 

“Where we going?” Richie asks, looking back towards Ben’s house. “Boyfriend not joining us?” 

She gives him a scornful look. “Told Ben that your ass needed kicking into shape, and I needed some one-on-one time with you to do it. Thought we could go into town.” 

“Ooh yeah,” Richie says, already slinging a leg over his bike again. “A trip out with Bev Marsh in public? Will you hold my hand? Get me a little extra street cred?” 

“Sure that’s the kind of cred you want?” Bev asks, hopping onto the back of his bike. Her arms wrap around him, easy as breathing. He can feel the bumps and curves of her body warm against his back. “Pretty sure I’m still a pariah round here.” 

“Haven’t you heard?” Richie asks, kicking off and beginning a slow pedal towards the high street. “Pariah is the new sexy.” 

*

They get ice cream, because the weather is still nice. The sun pours down on them, treacly and thick, in that Sunday afternoon way that makes time seem to slow down. They park Richie’s bike outside the arcades, then spend a while battling each other at Space Invaders and Pong. They walk around the park, arm in arm because Richie pulls a 1920’s fop Voice out of the barrel and pretends Bev is a lady he’s diligently courting. She laughs and smears his face with ice cream, which he totally deserves. She went for strawberry; it tastes tart and sweet when he licks it off his chin.  Finally, they wander out to the Kissing Bridge; Bev pulls out her smokes, hops up on the fence, her bare legs dangling just in front of the spot where Richie’s heart and soul is carved into the wood. He says nothing, of course, and holds out his hand for a cigarette, leaning next to her. 

“So,” she says after a moment of them smoking in silence. 

Richie’s stomach flips over; he knew this was coming, but it doesn’t make it any less terrifying. “Are you gonna ask me to make out? Is that why you brought me out here, you wily harlot? My mother warned me about girls like you...” 

She kicks him swiftly in the side. “Has it happened before?”

“Ow, what? Getting physically abused by some hooligan in heels?” Richie asks, rubbing the bruising spot. 

She side-eyes him, one fair eyebrow arched. “You know what I mean. Yesterday. You and fanny pack on the mouldy couch.” 

He swallows, unable to stop the telltale slide of his eyes away from hers. “Oh, what, Eds?” He clears his throat. “With the, uh, lips and what not?” 

She nods, blowing out smoke in a long wash. 

Richie sucks in hard on his cigarette, heart thumping hard and fast. “Uh, a couple of times, I guess.” 

“And I take it he’s not usually stoned when it happens?” 

Richie snorts. “Were you not witness to how much that little hypochondriac freaked out yesterday? I think that was a one-time-only deal. First and last marijuana experience.” 

Bev shrugs, mouth quirking. “Seemed like he was enjoying himself. Maybe he’ll become a pothead.” 

Richie can feel his cheeks growing hot, talking about this. “It’s not, uh, like a ...thing. We just… we’re close, y’know? And- and he feels safe with me, and he wants to know what it’s like to kiss someone I guess, and-”

“And what about you?” 

Richie squints up at her; the sun is directly at her back, giving her a weird pale halo. “Huh?”

“What are your reasons for going along with it, if the kissing is all Eddie’s idea?”

Richie frowns. “I didn’t say it was all his idea.” He waits, but Bev just keeps looking expectantly at him. He sighs, pulling the last of the tobacco from the cigarette before dropping it to the ground. He feels like the carving of his and Eddie’s initials is glowing beneath them, pulsing out the answer to Bev’s annoyingly astute question. She’s too smart for her own good, is the trouble. “Eddie is…” Richie shakes his head. There aren’t words for it, and he’d never be able to find the right ones if there were. “He’s my best friend.” It sounds lame. Sounds like a playground term, nowhere near big enough to hold everything that he feels. “He’s my favourite person.”

“You in love with him?”

She tosses the question out as if it were nothing. As if she were asking the time, or Richie’s evening plans. His throat feels like it’s closing up. His cheeks are scalding. Then a hand rests, gentle, on his shoulder. He turns to look at it, his own fingers digging more marks into the wood of the fence, already so riddled with his darkest secrets. 

He swallows hard, and nods. “Of course I’m-" A pause. Another swallow. "Yeah,” he whispers. 

She nods too, in the corner of his vision. As her chin moves up and down, sparkles of light squeeze past her, splashing onto the pebbled path of the bridge. Her hand squeezes his shoulder, then retreats. 

“Lucky guy,” she says in a final sort of voice, like the conversation has been succinctly wrapped up. She hops down from the fence, then paces away a little, wordlessly giving Richie a moment to gather himself together. She leans over the fence on the other side of the bridge while Richie wipes his snotty nose on his shirt sleeve. “D’you think Ben knows I love him?” she calls without turning, startling Richie out of his shame spiral. “I don’t think I can tell him out loud. Not yet.”

Richie waits a moment, then walks over to join her. “I’m not sure he does,” he says slowly. “He’s kind of in awe of you, I think. All the bullying from Bowers probably didn’t give him a great shine of self-confidence. Think the ball’s in your court if you wanna get any fires started there.” 

She nods grimly. They fall into a peaceful silence, one that Richie doesn’t hate like he usually does. After a minute or so, she lifts her hand and holds it out. Richie gladly grasps it, and they squeeze hard, a mutual, non-verbal acknowledgement of their own dumb weakness in regards to their love-stricken woes. 

“I’ll tell mine if you tell yours,” she says, and Richie feels a pulse of bile push into the base of his throat. 

He coughs to disguise his laugh, pulling his hand away from hers. “Yeah, right. Like either of us cowards could ever do something as ballsy as admitting our true feelings.”

She shrugs. “We’re pretty competitive cowards. What if we turn it into a whoever-does-it-first-wins thing?”

Richie shakes his head, already lost in his own despair at the futility of it. There’s no competition on earth that could propel him into baring his soul to the person that matters most to him, considering the likelihood that Eddie’s reaction would be abject horror, followed by a swift cessation of all contact with him. 

“Sure,” he says anyway, because he’s a fool for happy endings, and he’d lie through his teeth to encourage Bev to seal the deal with her own Prince Charming. “What do I get if I win?”

“I could make you some pot brownies?” 

Richie chuckles, nodding. “Alright. Sweet. What do you want, if you win?” 

“I want your big sweater,” Bev says immediately, pouncing on the opportunity. Richie groans, head falling forwards. “C’mon this is a big deal for me! That’s what I want.” 

“But it’s vintage!”

“You found it in a thrift store for ninety-nine cents,” Bev argues. “Come on, if you beat me you won’t even have to give it up.”

“Fine, whatever,” he says, relenting. “Robbing me blind, woman.” 

She nudges him with her elbow. “You’ll thank me one day.” 

*

Eddie isn’t at school on Monday. Richie feels his absence like a weight dragging his shoulders towards the ground, and can tell no one. The other Losers only bring it up at lunchtime, finally noticing Eddie’s empty chair after  _ four hours _ . Richie cracks a joke, as usual, something about the chocolate edible being a gateway drug and Eddie now being passed out in a meth den. It’s a bit off-colour, and the others grimace at him, but don’t beep beep. 

Richie has to keep spewing worse and worse jokes from then on, finding that his audience’s horrified reactions give him something to focus on besides the wound of Eddie being inexplicably Not Here. He’s an absolute prat in his afternoon classes, pouncing on every opportunity to make a dumb, vulgar pun, or not-so-witty remark. He’s not surprised when Ms Lewis kicks him out of English for mistranslating Shakespeare __ with a hyper-sexualised twist involving a three-way with Othello, Iago, and Desdemona _.  _

Ms Lewis deserved it, though, for making Mike read out all the Othello parts. 

After school, Richie seriously considers just riding his bike straight over to Eddie’s house, but forces himself not to be a total fucking strung out loser, and shuts himself up at home instead. When the phone rings as he’s microwaving Roberta a TV Dinner, he lunges for it, but it’s not Eddie. It’s some strange sounding man wanting his mother. She takes the call in another room. 

*

By the end of the third Eddie-less day, Richie has racked up three weeks of detention, and has pissed off Stan so much that he refuses to sit near Richie at break time. He feels bad about the latter of course, but even Stan seemed to understand that it wasn’t exactly Richie’s fault. 

_ “Fuck’s sake, can you not survive three days without having Eddie to piss off?”  _ Stan had grunted out, two-percent milk now splattered across his new birdwatching book. The milk may have been shot from Richie’s pursed lips in imitation of the water-spouting heron on the page. 

So it turns out, apparently, that the answer to Stan’s question is no. 

The cold shoulder of his friend spurs Richie into the decision to cycle by Eddie’s after school, just to see if there’s anything amiss. The likelihood is, as always, that Mrs Kaspbrak invented yet another mad illness to attribute to her son so she can keep him swathed in blankets under her watchful eye for days on end. If this is true, then Richie is basically in with no shot at actually getting a glimpse of Eddie, as Sonia near enough sleeps in his bed with him during these periods of hyper-madness.  Even so, Richie is at a severe risk of losing all his friends, along with his chance at a decent Derry-less future, if he doesn’t at least try to pry Eddie from Sonia’s tight claws. So, he collects his bike from the lot and heads to Lobelia Avenue. 

The first thing he notes is that all the curtains are drawn. A bad sign. 

He stops his bike across the road from Eddie’s, gnawing his lip and debating what to do. He could try and sneak around the back and climb up to Eddie’s window, but there’s a huge risk that Sonia will be in Eddie’s room if she’s doing the crazy over-mothering thing, and that would be disastrous. She could put bars on his window; Richie would never be able to sneak in again.  He waits there, one foot on his pedal, the other on the tarmac, as he forces his oversized brain to formulate a feasible plan. After a minute or so, he’s got something that might work. He opens up his rucksack and pulls out a pen and his Biology textbook, then flips to page 69 and scribbles a message. Eddie will surely know him well enough to guess the right page. 

Richie smooths his hair as best he can with his hands, checks a nearby car’s wing mirror for any dirt or cheeto dust smudged on his face, and tucks in his shirt. Then, he walks up Eddie’s front path, and knocks on the door. He waits for at least ten minutes before it’s cracked open, Sonia’s heavy breath and one shrewd eye sneaking through the gap. 

“Richard,” she acknowledges with an obvious air of distaste. 

Richie gives her his most charming grin, holding up the textbook. “Hello, Mrs K. I brought this for Eddie. It’s his Biology textbook. I noticed he hasn’t been at school for a few days, and thought he could use it to keep up with the lessons he’s missed.” 

Mrs Kaspbrak’s gaze falls to the book. She wrinkles her nose, making no move to take it. “Why do you have Eddie’s textbook?” 

“I borrowed it from him last week,” Richie says, thinking quickly, “I lost mine.”

She sniffs. “So you’re careless with your possessions and your hygiene. I can tell you don’t wash behind your ears.” Richie struggles for a reply to this, but luckily Mrs K just reaches through the gap and plucks the book from his hands. “You can run along now. Thank you for returning the book.”

“Oh, hang on Mrs K-” Richie sticks his foot in the door, much to her chagrin. “Just wondering. When do you think Eds will be back at school? Is he sick?” 

She narrows her eyes again; Richie politely removes his foot from where it’s wedged in. “Eddie won’t be going to school for a while. I’ll make sure he receives his textbook and keeps up with his studies. Goodbye, Richard.” 

He keeps his smile in place until the door shuts and locks, then holds up a middle finger for Sonia's benefit, and hurries back to his bike. Where’s his invitation into the Secret Service, already? He’s like James fucking Bond. 

*

“Where are you going?” 

Roberta is cross-legged on the landing halfway up the stairs, hair in two scrawny plaits, dressed in her pink gingham pyjamas. Richie freezes, in the middle of straightening his denim jacket’s fleece collar. 

“Oh, this cool new place, you might have heard of it?” 

“What’s it called?”

“Noneofyourgoddamnbeeswax,” Richie quips, jumping past her to the next stair down. She punches him in the leg with her tiny fist. “Go to bed, Bertie,” he calls, hurrying down the last of the steps. “I’ll be back by sun up.” 

“It’s after eleven. I’m telling mom!” 

Richie sighs, turning to face her, one hand on the bannister. “Kiddo, unless I’m lying dead in a sewer, mom doesn’t care where I am.” 

Roberta wrinkles her nose. “Don’t die in a  _ sewer _ , it’s gross.” 

He points a finger gun at her, nodding solemnly.  _ Stop making jokes about the fucking clown. _ “You and your friends don’t seem to mind it. Smell ya later.” 

“Moooom!” Richie hears distantly as he creeps to the front door and slips out into the night. 

*

Richie has to wait for a good five minutes, hanging on for dear life to the dying foliage covering the cladding below Eddie’s window, to make sure he can’t hear Sonia’s voice from inside Eddie’s room. He’d specified that Eddie drew an X on the window in permanent marker if this plan was a no-go, and the glass is squeaky clean, but still, doesn’t hurt to be cautious. Only when his fingers feel like they might break off does he risk it, tapping out the Ghostbusters theme tune as he said he would on the glass. 

The squeak of bedsprings, the glorious pad of socked feet on carpet, and then, like the sun breaking through the clouds, the curtains part to reveal Eddie’s face. He gives Richie a tired smile, which immediately pierces a stake of worry through Richie’s gut. Normally, Eddie is ten levels of pissed to see him here, crawling up the side of his house like a goddamn cockroach in the hopes of forcing his way inside.  Eddie checks the closed door behind him, head cocked to listen for sounds, then pulls open the window. Richie’s hands are about to lock into the positions of a gnarled, withered old man’s, but he doesn’t move straight away. Just stares into Eddie’s big, baleful eyes for the first time in days. 

“Hey,” Eddie says, stepping back to let him in, “got your note.” 

“How’d you guess the page number?” Richie asks as he hoists himself up onto the ledge.

His too-long leg hits the wood of the frame, making it shudder. A loud noise that makes Richie wince in apology. Eddie just rolls his eyes at the question, moving to sit on the bed. The covers are flipped back, meaning Eddie had been in bed just now. By the looks of things, he’s been in bed a lot longer than that.  Tissues are piled in the wastepaper bin, although none of them look even vaguely snotty. There are numerous pill bottles clumped together on Eddie’s bedside table, a thermometer, three inhalers, and a half full pint glass of water. 

His pillow has a deep indent in it, like it hasn’t been fluffed for days. 

“So, you missed me, then?” 

Richie scoffs playfully at this, though in truth he’s having trouble suppressing the nausea churned up by the sight of what looks a lot like a forced quarantine. “Ben was getting all choked up not having you around. Said I’d drop by and see what was up.”

“Ben was, huh?” 

Richie allows him a smile. He drops to a crouch before Eddie, hands on the poor guy’s pyjama’d knees. “What’s been goin’ on? This a Rapunzel situation? Do I need to get me a trusty steed and dragon-slaying sword?” He reaches up to tease at one of Eddie’s longer tufts of hair. “Possibly some scissors to snip off your magical locks?” 

“You’re one to talk,” Eddie says, hand going for Richie’s hair, but pulling back just before he makes contact, a strange look on his face. He gets up off the bed, abruptly, heading for his bedside to chug down some water. When he’s done, he wipes his mouth, turns, says, “Mom smelled pot on me when I came home the other night.”

“Oh, shit.” Richie stands, cursing their collective stupidity. 

Eddie nods, grimacing. “Yeah. It was bad. I think it’s ‘cause… I don’t even know how, but I was wearing your shirt when I got in. D’you remember that?” 

Richie swallows, nodding guiltily. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. Damn his sentimental brain. “You were cold.” The look Eddie gives him is soft, so Richie turns from it. Unable to cope. “So, what is this?” Richie gestures to the drugs, tissues and rumpled bed. “Rehab?” 

“Something like that,” Eddie sighs, sinking into his bed crease. “She’s trying to cleanse my blood of the toxins or something, I dunno.” 

“Jesus.” 

“Yeah.” 

They’re silent for a moment, processing. “So, you got any snacks in here?”

“If you’re into gluten-free, sugar-free, organic, non-HMO, low-salt saltine crackers, then sure.” 

Eddie pulls the box of these diabolical things from under the bed. Richie bats them straight out of his hands as if Eddie is brandishing a feral raccoon. 

“Unacceptable,” Richie declares, “everyone knows that recovering drug addicts need sugar and delicious, addictive chemicals to supplement the narcotics.” 

Eddie smiles, rolling his eyes. “Sounds great, but Mom would rather die than feed me a single bite of a candy bar, so-”

Richie reaches into his oversized jacket pockets and pulls out his stash. A Bounty, a Snickers bar, a pack of half-eaten Red Vines - and a box of Nerds. He throws these at Eddie, grinning. “For you, nerd.” 

It’s  _ not _ because he knows Nerds are Eddie’s favourite. It’s because he wanted to make that lame, unfunny joke. Eddie looks at the box like the candy inside is made of clear-cut diamonds, then fixes Richie with a look of awe. 

“You wanna stay a while?” he blurts. “Tell me about what’s goin’ on at school.” 

Richie gladly removes his jacket and leaps onto the bed, making Eddie grumble about being jostled, though he still shifts over to make room. They tear into the candy while Richie runs his mouth, like he does best, embellishing his tales of pissing off Ms Lewis and Mrs Carter and Ms Quentin, and of course poor Stan. Eddie tells him off for the Stan one, which delights Richie to no end. 

“Those bird books are his prized possessions, you asshole,” Eddie lectures, then tips his head back and pours a load of Nerds into his mouth. “What’d he do to deserve that?”

“Well, when my favourite target isn’t around I gotta improvise,” Richie jokes, prodding Eddie in the ribs so that he squeals around his mouthful of candy. They both freeze, looking to the door in alarm in case Sonia heard the noise. Seconds tick by, no sound, so they relax back against Eddie’s pillows. “So, what’cha been doing to pass the time in captivity?” 

Eddie shrugs, shaking the last of the Nerds into his open palm. Richie snags a couple before he can guzzle the lot. “Reading comics for the thousandth time. Trying to do homework if mom isn’t hovering.” 

“She doesn’t want you to study?” 

Eddie frowns. “She’s been angling to homeschool me for years. But her idea of school is eternal bedrest and me occasionally massaging her feet.” 

“That’s so crappy, Eds, you can’t let her-” Richie stops short at the sight of Eddie’s ‘ _ Don’t _ ’ expression. He’s worn out, judging from the dark purplish circles beneath his eyes. He’s probably been hashing this argument out with the madwoman every day. Richie smoothly changes tack. “Hey, want me to take over the massages for a while? I’ll keep her busy for y- ow!”

Richie shields his face to avoid further slapping. 

“You suck,” Eddie says.

“Only your mom’s toes.”

“Eww. Beep beep.” 

Richie laughs, shifting closer because he’s lost the ability to play it cool, suddenly. Eddie’s pyjamas smell like freshly washed cotton, with the faint unmistakeable tang of bleach. He inhales deeply, quietly, through his nose. His skin prickles, the way it does when he craves a cigarette.

“What else you been doin’ to pass the time?” Richie asks, plucking at Eddie’s sleeve cuff. His voice has a husk to it. 

“I dunno,” he mutters. Richie tilts his head, lifts a suggestive eyebrow, and Eddie’s face pinkens instantly. “Not- whatever you’re implying- shut the fuck up, Richie.”

“I just have this half-baked memory of you telling me how you sometimes wile away the hours when you’re all alone up here…” 

Eddie shrinks down into his covers, pulling his pillow over his face. “Unngh, fuck you. Look, I was mega stoned when I told you about that. I would never have said that if I’d been in my right mind.” 

Near choking with how hard he’s attempting to hold back his own laughter, Richie wrestles with the pillow. “Aw, Eds, c’mon, who could blame you? I’m obviously gorgeous and sexy, everyone in our grade is prob’ly picturing me when they-”

The pillow slams into the side of Richie’s head so hard that his glasses fly off. When he finds them and places them back in front of his eyes, Eddie’s furious shape slots into focus. 

“Stop  _ thinking _ about it.”

“Now why would I do that?”

Eddie’s face is  _ burning _ . It shouldn’t be so delicious to see him mortified, but Richie has always been weird about his Eddie-related kinks. “It’s- it’s gross!” 

“Oh, Eddie, let me assure you that it’s very very  _ not  _ gross.”

“WE ARE NOT TALKING ABOUT THIS.” 

It’s a whisper shout, but still. Richie reluctantly eases up on the teasing because the poor guy is in involuntary quarantine. He tries for a kinder sort of reassurance. “No need to be embarrassed, y’know. Everybody jerks off.”

“Richie, I swear-”

“Just saying, you’re such a frequent flyer in my wank fantasies you’ve racked up enough air miles to get you on a round trip to Budapest.” 

Eddie’s next noise is a mixture of an agonised howl and a coughing fit. Either way, he downs the last of his water, cheeks red enough to send Sonia into a full-blown panic attack, had she been here to see. When Eddie finally settles back beside him, Richie feels kind of bad for maybe pushing it too far. He’s tense and definitely weirded out, so Richie sighs, the apology he only ever gives Eddie on the tip of his tongue.  But before it escapes, Eddie turns to him, the black holes of his pupils swallowing up the chocolate colour of his eyes. Richie hesitates; his stomach has time for one single somersault, and then Eddie leans in, gripping Richie by a handful of his shirt, and drives their mouths together. 

“Shit-okay-” Richie manages and is then promptly shut up by Eddie’s tongue. 

“I haven’t showered today,” Eddie mumbles into Richie’s mouth as he wriggles in closer. 

“God, you really nail it with the sexy talk, Eds,” Richie replies, heart a pebble skimming an endless surface of rippling pond. 

He wraps his hands around Eddie’s tiny waist and drags him into his lap, which feels wild and reckless. Eddie makes a tiny fluttery noise that sounds a bit like a moan, at which point Richie’s brain completely shuts down. 

“Am I disgusting?” Eddie asks between the meetings of their mouths. “You can push me off if you want-”

Instead of a verbal response of his horrified reaction to this idea, Richie decides to show Eddie exactly how much he does not want to stop right now by flipping them over so Eddie is underneath him, and he can drape himself on top, head to toe. Eddie, bless his pristine white socks, lets Richie manhandle him without a whimper of complaint, and eagerly pulls Richie down by his hair once they’re in position. 

Eddie is so warm. He wriggles, fidgets, never still for a moment, one hand combing and tugging in Richie’s hair, the other wandering over his shoulders, his back, his arm. Richie breaks away from Eddie’s mouth to breathe - something he apparently forgot, briefly, that he needed to do - and Eddie angles his face away, exposing miles of creamy pale throat. Richie dives for it, pressing firm, hard kisses from clavicle to jaw as Eddie squirms. And yes, now that Eddie has pointed it out, Richie can sure as fuck feel him through those thin cotton pyjama bottoms, hard and wanting against his thigh. 

“Fuck,” Richie whispers, right into Eddie’s ear. 

Eddie pushes lightly on his shoulders, alarmed. “What’s wrong? D’you wanna stop? I can go shower right now if you-”

Richie huffs a laugh, then drops a kiss to Eddie’s mouth. “No, you clean freak. I’d make out with you if you were covered in horse shit.” 

“That’s… disgusting,” Eddie says. But underneath the horror he looks vaguely pleased. “Are you okay?”

“I think I need to… take a breather,” Richie admits, wincing. 

He sits back on his knees, in the ‘V’ of Eddie’s legs; it takes everything he has not to zero in on the bulge he knows is stretching the pyjama fabric. He takes off his glasses, so he won’t be tempted to perv. Concerned, Eddie props himself up on his elbows, studying Richie’s face. 

“Did I do something wrong?” 

“Fuck, no, of course not.” Richie takes a deep, shuddery breath, thinking of Mrs K’s big, waddly behind, and Ms Lewis’ bulging forehead vein, and Stan’s milk-covered pages of aquatic birds. “I, uh, just… you jumped me and I wasn’t expecting it, and now…”

“What?” Eddie’s voice has a tinge of panic to it.

“Fuck, Eds, I really have to spell this out?”

Eddie just stares blankly, wide-eyed. Richie slides his glasses back on, hoping the frames will hide the flush he can feel creeping in. 

“I’m a horny teenage boy with the hots for you, okay? I can’t handle surprise make out sessions for longer than two minutes without being in serious danger of blowing my load on your peach-coloured sheets.” Richie pauses. “Dick,” he adds, for good measure. 

“Oh,” Eddie says eventually, eyes tracking unsubtly down to the crotch of Richie’s pants. They do pretty well at concealing his boner, these capris, but they needn’t bother, now that Eddie is fully aware his commander is very much not at ease. “You’d… just from kissing me?” 

“Uh, yeah! You’re a smoking hot piece, Eds. Your mom passed on her best genetics-”

Eddie kicks him in the stomach, winding him briefly. 

“Ooh, yeah, actually,” Richie wheezes, doubled over, “do that again, it’s helping my boner go down.”

“Thought you liked a bit of pain, ” Eddie says, sitting up to flick at Richie’s wisps of hair. The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk that obliterates every thought from Richie’s brain. 

“Aaaand, I’m back to full chub again, thanks a lot.” 

Eddie laughs, blushing, and extricates himself dutifully, much to Richie’s despair. “Okay, time out.” 

“Gimme a little warning when you wanna tap back in next time,” Richie says, still tingling, “I swear I’ll have better control over my rampant libido.” 

It’s a little awkward at first, given that they both know how worked up the other is, but eventually they slide back into bickering and chatting, mostly centred around Richie’s misbehaviour over the last few days. Eddie slumps into Richie’s side even as he’s wringing him out to dry for making Miss Patel cry in Drama class by climbing up on the rafters as part of his chimpanzee impression. 

“It’s called embodying your character!” 

“It’s called reckless self-endangerment and giving your teacher a heart attack!” 

Eddie’s head slides into Richie’s lap - he’s now down to a wilting semi, so it’s probably not too uncomfortable down there - and Richie plays with his baby soft hair, all fluffy and silky from the excessive shampooing he gives it. Eddie’s eyes slip closed pretty much as soon as Richie’s fingers push into the locks. He doesn’t fall asleep, but is obviously drifting on the edge of it, answers becoming slurred and only half-intelligible. 

Reluctantly, Richie swivels around to look at Eddie’s clock. “Shit, it’s four in the morning.”

“Hm?” Eddie’s eyes crack open. “Oh, it is?” 

“You’re losing all sense of time in this cell.”

Eddie frowns, like he’s just remembered his situation. “Do you have to go?”

“What time does mommy Kaspbrak wake you up?” 

“Seven.”

“Grim.” Richie’s hand finds Eddie’s and squeezes. “I’d better split, Princess.” 

“Princess?” 

“Yeah. Rapunzel’s a Princess, right?” 

Eddie hmmph’s, but doesn’t manage to summon a further protest. His shoulders rise and fall in a heavy sigh. He sits up slowly, half his hair sticking up from where Richie’s been messing with it. 

“You’re gonna be tired at school,” he mumbles. 

“I’ll sleep in class.”

“You’ll get more detentions, you moron.” 

Richie shrugs, then tickles under Eddie’s chin until he receives a weak slap. “Worth it.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes and Richie laughs, then heaves himself off the bed to get his jacket. The wind is roaring outside; this should be a fun cycle ride home. He’s just pulling his arm through the sleeve when he hears a quiet sniffle above his own swirling thoughts. Alarmed, he’s at Eddie’s side in seconds, trying to get a look at Eddie’s face even though it’s hidden behind his knees. 

“Just go, I’m fine,” Eddie insists, batting away Richie’s hands. 

“Eddie, if you think I’m leaving you like this you’re nuttier than your mom when she’s on the rag.” Eddie just hiccups and sniffs again. “She’s crazy when the painters are in. Once a month she makes me do all kinds of weird kinky shit. Surprised you can’t hear my yells through the thin walls-”

Eddie lifts his head to glare at Richie, hard. His cheeks are pink and damp. “Fuck you.”

“There he is.” Richie grins, and for whatever reason, the sight of his big, crooked teeth seem to staunch the tears. “What’s wrong, Princess?” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Fine, what’s wrong Eds?” 

“Don’t- ugh, you’re so annoying. Just go if you’re going.”

He hesitates, carefully pulling apart Eddie’s words. “You want me to stay?” 

Eddie doesn’t respond straight away. He draws his knees closer to his chest. “My mom will find you if you’re here at seven.” 

“So I’ll stay ‘til six-fifty-nine.” Richie shrugs off his jacket, toes off his shoes again. “Shift over, weepy.” 

Eddie is wearing a clear expression of guilt, unable to meet Richie’s eye. “You don’t have to,” he says softly. “I’m being pathetic. I’m just lonely in here without-” he pauses. “Everyone. All the Losers.” 

“That’s not pathetic,” Richie says, settling back into his spot, one arm resting around Eddie’s shoulders. “If I was stranded up here by myself I would’ve hurled myself out the window second hour in.” 

Eddie snorts, snottily. It’s gross, but his own disgust makes it adorable. He blows his nose in a tissue and chucks it in the overflowing bin. “I’m tired,” he says, like he’s admitting a shameful secret. “You wanna try and get some sleep? I’ll set an alarm for six fifty-five.” 

“Make it six fifty-eight,” Richie says, already crawling under the covers. “I’m a pro at sneaking out quickly. Learned from all those times I had to sneak out of your mom’s room-”

Eddie kicks him, then immediately follows up by fitting his entire body into Richie’s embrace, nose buried in Richie’s chest. His sigh is one of pure relief, which makes Richie sure he did the right thing - something he is rarely sure of. He strokes the short hairs on the back of Eddie’s neck, making him shudder. 

“Sweet dreams, Princess.”

“Get fucked,” Eddie mumbles, then tilts his head up, and kisses him. 

Richie stays awake for the whole two hours and fifty minutes before the alarm wakes Eddie up, arms tight around the small slumbering body, his dopey smile etched into his face. 


	6. Chapter 6

“What’s up with you today?” 

Bill’s voice drifts through the half-asleep haze Richie is buffeting about in. He blinks at his friend blearily across the cafeteria table. “Nothin’. Just tired.” 

“You heard from Eddie at all?” Ben asks, biting into a stick of celery. 

The crunch makes it sound delicious, which is how Richie knows he’s bordering on delirious. 

“Uh, yeah. Sonia’s got him on lockdown. I dropped off some supplies to tide him over last night. Candy, drugs, porn, et cetera.”

“The essentials,” Bill jokes along, chuckling. He pushes his Coke across the table. “Here, have the rest. You need the caffeine more than me.” 

“William, you’d share your precious cooties with me?” Richie asks, taking the Coke gratefully. “I’m touched. I’ll wait ‘til you’re out of the room before I start auctioning it to the harems of Bill fans in here.”

Bill flips him the bird, then stands. “I’m gonna go find Audra. See you guys later. Rich, if you see Eddie again, tell him to hang in there. We’re thinking of him.” 

Richie lifts the can of drink in acknowledgement of this. 

“Bev’s coming down again this weekend,” Ben mentions, so forcibly casual that it’s as if he hadn’t chosen the exact moment Bill left to bring it up. Richie smiles into his soda. “She says she’s got a surprise to show us.” 

“What happened to the days when she forgot about us the minute she left town?” Richie asks, though his spirits have been buoyed by the news. Bev will be outraged by Eddie’s imprisonment; together they can hatch a plot to free him.

Ben shrugs, looking vaguely smug. “We have a regular bi-weekly phone call. Even if she doesn’t remember exactly why, she knows to wait by the phone at nine o’clock on Mondays and Wednesdays. As soon as she hears my voice she remembers.”

“Is that like a PTSD thing, you think?” Mike asks, licking the inside of his candy bar wrapper clean. 

“Hey, I respect it. If I could forget this fuckin’ town I would,” Richie says bitterly, thinking of the fucking clown, and Mrs K, and his vacant, oblivious parents. One day, he vows to himself, he and Eddie will hit the bricks, leave this place in the rearview, and forget every last blade of grass in Derry. 

The others nod, all lost in their own, equally traumatic memories. 

*

It’s Saturday, and Richie has spent every night at Eddie’s since Wednesday; his body screams for a proper night of sleep, but he’s happily ignoring it in favour of making sure Eddie isn’t miserable and alone up in his tower. The problem is that he has to wait for Mrs K to go to bed before he can sneak into Eddie’s room each night, which leaves him with hours of waiting around in the afternoons going slowly stir-crazy. 

Thursday, he manages to fend off the antsy feelings with excessive amounts of candy, followed by a sugar-fuelled arcade tournament against any poor fucker that dares take him on. Liam Barnes bets a pack of smokes against Richie’s bag of pick ‘n’ mix over a game of Pacman. Riche wins, of course, and smokes the whole pack one after the other on Friday afternoon on his parents’ back porch. Then eats all the pick ‘n’ mix.

Saturday's wait is a bit better, because he’s with the rest of the Losers (minus Eddie) in Ben’s front garden, all five of them lounging on his fifties-style lawn furniture, waiting for Bev to show up with her ‘surprise’. She apparently doesn’t require collecting from the Greyhound station today for some reason, so they all arranged to meet here, where she’ll obviously be staying. A thought occurs to Richie as he sips his homemade lemonade (courtesy of Mrs Hanscomb), locked as his mind is to thoughts of Eddie’s poor situation. 

“Hey, Benadryl, don’t your folks mind Bev staying here all the time?” 

Ben shoots a nervous look at Bill before replying. “They like her. She’s polite. Think they feel kinda sorry for her, too.”

Richie smirks. “She sleep in your bed?” 

Bill’s straw reaches a pocket of air in his lemonade, and the resulting noise is hilariously loud. Ben’s round cheeks flush a deep pink. “N-no, she sleeps in the guest room.” 

That’s gotta be a point in Richie’s favour, right? He’s been spooning Eddie for three nights straight, meanwhile Bev has to sleep in a whole other room to Ben when she’s in town! That's got to bump him up the scoreboard in this weird competition they've embarked on, surely. 

Drawing Richie out of his musing is the distant, but unmistakable, chorus of a particularly dire New Kids on The Block song, steadily getting louder as a red truck in the distance ambles towards them along the quiet street. By the time it pulls up in front of Ben’s house, the music is loud enough to have several neighbours peering out of their windows. They all collectively cheer when Bev leans her head out of the driver’s seat window, her grin parting the freckles on her face like the moonlight splits the stars in the sky. They jump up to run over to her, awestruck by the hunk of scrap she’s idling in. 

“Like it?” she asks, loud over the song and the groaning engine. “I _own_ this piece of crap, fellas. My dad gave it to me. Some kind of penance or some shit.”

“Bev, this is awesome!” Mike declares, already clambering into the bed of the truck, then reaching over to haul Stan in behind him. “Take us for a spin, already!” 

“Sure,” she says, winking at Ben before switching off the music. Ben meets her eyes through the dirty windshield, shakes his head at her fondly as he walks around the car. Richie raises an eyebrow; some kind of inside joke, maybe? “Okay, losers. Let’s see what this baby can do, huh?” 

She slides on a pair of deep pink heart-shaped sunglasses - iconic - and moves her attention to Richie. She smiles wide, gesturing for him to climb in with the others - all in the bed apart from Ben, who has secured the passenger seat - when her smile wavers. She looks around, checking the rearview mirror. 

“Where’s Eddie?” 

Richie gives her a sad smile as he leans in to kiss her cheek through the open window. “Tell you about it later,” he says into her ear. She gives him a worried glance - hilarious through her glasses - and he hops into the bed of the truck with the others, landing directly on Bill accidentally-on-purpose.

*

“That’s bullshit,” Bev spits when Richie tells her about Eddie’s confinement. “Crap, I've become a goddamned drug pusher.” 

Richie glances at her, surprised. They’ve pulled off the road to wade into a field of corn stalks, high enough to graze Richie’s elbows. The perfect pee spot, as long as they’re not ambushed by a trigger happy corn farmer. Bill, Stan and Mike have all wandered in separate directions to do their business, but Richie peed back at Ben’s house, so he sticks with Bev, who kindly shares her joint with him as they push aimlessly through the stubborn tufts of yellow corn. 

“Hey, no one’s blaming you, cheech,” Richie tells her, “Eddie least of all. He voluntarily chowed down on that edible. If anyone’s at fault here it’s me. I put my big dumb shirt on him ‘cause he was shivering; obviously didn’t think about the fact it clearly  _ reeked o’da reefer. _ ” 

“Was that… Jamaican?” 

“It sorta leaped out, sorry.” 

She chuckles, handing back the joint. As he inhales, he feels the weed coiling around his sharpest worries, filing them back to blunt stubs. A haze of calm trickles through him, gloopy and summer-soft. Bev ruffles his hair, her laughter a distant bell in a faraway chapel. He wishes Eddie were here, complaining about the dirt on his shoes and the pesticides on the corn, steadfastly refusing to pee anywhere other than a heavily bleached toilet bowl. He’s smiling, too wide and stupid to be normal, just imagining the ridiculous things he’d say.

“You busy later, Romeo?” Bev asks, grinning at him knowingly. 

“Got to hurl a hunk of meat into my feral sister’s cage, but after that I’m free,” Richie replies. “Why? You finally askin’ me on a real date, Marsh?” 

She smirks. “Be ready at ten. Let’s break Juliet out for a bit.” 

*

Tonight, Eddie’s window is open a crack. A-flutter with delight that his visits are becoming so commonplace, Richie attempts to heave up the window by himself from the outside, near falling off the side of the house as he struggles with it. Eventually, Eddie appears to help him, looking vaguely annoyed.

“I left this open so I wouldn’t have to get up,” he complains, taking Richie’s hands and yanking him through the gap. Richie falls face first into the room, almost dislocating his shoulder. Eddie drops him with a sigh, hands planting on his hips. “You’re lucky my mom took a Valium earlier. You’re about as quiet as a fucking elephant.” 

“Please, Eds, stop, you’ll suffocate me in your affection.” Richie hauls himself up off the floor, digging his glasses out of the indent they’ve made in his nose. He peers at Eddie through the smeared lenses. “You wearing that?” 

Eddie frowns, already climbing back into bed. “Pyjamas? Would you rather I changed into my ball gown for bed?” 

“Sassy this evening,” Richie says, grinning. He bounds over to Eddie’s bedside and scoops him out of the indent he’s created in the mattress, doing his best not to let the slaps and shrieks deter him. “C’mon, Princess. You’ve had enough bedrest. Throw on those li’l red shorts that give me an aneurysm. I’ll find you a shirt.” 

He dumps Eddie on the carpet, all skinny limbs and indignant huffing, then heads for his chest of drawers. He rifles through Eddie’s neatly folded polo shirts, trying to find something that he won’t grow cold in. It takes about five seconds before Eddie is yanking him backwards by the collar.

“What the fuck are you doing, fuckface?” 

Eddie has hold of him by one arm, so Richie uses the other to dig into the depths of the open drawer; his fingers graze the unmistakable texture of pre-worn, shabby cotton. He pulls it out triumphantly, holding it up. 

“Keep this tucked safely in your drawer with your skin mags and vibrators, huh?” 

Eddie rips Richie’s shirt from his hand, scarlet with embarrassment. “My mom threw it out, but I got it out of the trash, asshole. Thought you might want it back, but maybe I should’ve let it be taken away and incinerated. Could’ve given the garbage men your address so they could take the rest of your wardrobe too.”

They’re running short on time, so as much as Richie would love to point out that it’s been three days and Eddie hasn’t so much as mentioned this shirt, let alone tried to give it back to him, he decides to hurry things along. 

“Listen, grumpy, Bev’s back for the weekend,” Richie says, hands planted on Eddie’s shoulders. “She drove here, Eds. In her own truck! It’s awesome, and we’re going for a spin in it. She’s waiting out front for us.”

Alarm settles more deeply into Eddie’s expression with each word that falls from Richie’s mouth. “She’s… but- I can’t go out…”

“Your mom’s knocked out from the Valium,” Richie reminds him. “C’mon, this is a jailbreak! One night only. We can paint the town green!” 

“Why green?”

“It’s your favourite, isn’t it?” 

Eddie swallows; the trillions of potential excuses are dancing across the whites of his eyes. He closes a hand around Richie’s left wrist, light as a moth. “You’ll get me home before she wakes up?” 

“Princess, you’ll be back in your tower by sunrise, I swear.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes at the nickname. “Don’t call me that in front of Bev,” he grumbles, but begins unbuttoning his pyjama shirt. 

“So I can call you that when we’re alone?” 

“Turn the fuck around and stop being a dick,” Eddie snaps, so Richie does, barrelling towards the window to jam a big thumbs up into the night. 

Bev flashes her headlights in acknowledgement. This is going to be a night to remember. 

*

Smuggling his duvet and pillows out of the house had been a tricky manoeuvre, but Richie is glad he made the effort. He's layered up, knowing the nights turn cold quickly in the Spring, but Eddie is too nervous to think as sensibly as that. He's come out in his red shorts, trainers and a thin sweater. So when Richie presents him with the chariot in which they’ll be riding - the bed of Bev’s new truck - he’s glad that the cushions Ben brought, and the duvet, are there to help him sell it. 

“What about seat belts?” Eddie demands, steadfastly ignoring Richie’s pleas with him to get in. “If Bev has to swerve out of the way of a deer or a drunk driver we could be thrown out onto the road-”

“I’ll wrap my arms around you real tight,” Richie cries, moments away from dragging the idiot in kicking and screaming. “My enormous brain will weigh us down like an anchor. C’mon, Eds, please get in. Bev’ll drive like my grandma on Xanax, right?” 

Leaning out of her window, watching them, Bev gives a thumbs up. Despite their obvious cool factor, Richie can't help but feel that wearing the heart-shaped sunglasses at night is not helping to assuage Eddie's nerves. “Right!", she says, all confidence. "Don’t worry Eddie, my driver’s ed teacher told me I was ‘passable with practice’.” 

“You don’t have a licence?!” 

Before either of them can dig themselves into a deeper hole, Ben’s face appears beside Bev’s, smiling broadly, infectiously. “Hey, don’t sweat it Eddie. I can vouch for her. I’m taking my test in a couple of weeks, so I’ll make sure nothing goes wrong.” 

“This is so fucking reckless and dumb,” Eddie says, shaking his head, but he’s finally begun hoisting himself into the truck, so Richie silently sends Ben a love letter. “Get off!” Eddie growls when Richie tries to help pull him over the lip. 

With some wriggling, he manages to climb in, arranging himself in the middle of the pillow nest Richie has created. Knowing far too well just how lucky it is to get a win like this with Eddie K, Richie hurriedly and silently settles himself down on the cushions as well, then pulls the duvet up over them both. He reaches behind him and slams his hand twice on the metal divider that separates Ben and Bev from them: a signal that they’re ready to move. Eddie’s hand finds his underneath the covers, and while at first it’s a sweet gesture, it becomes apparent as soon as the engine roars to life, that he’s using Richie as a stress reliever. 

“Easy, Eds,” Richie says through gritted teeth, just about resisting the urge to pull free, “if you break that hand I’ll have to use my left to jerk off. Won’t be nearly as satisfying.” 

“Shut up,” Eddie hisses, eyes shut. 

Bev’s driving is, as promised, almost comically slow, but Richie dutifully holds tight to Eddie’s trembling hand, filing away the teasing material for later, when he can milk it for all its worth. They trundle along the quiet suburban roads, headed for the outskirts of town. Bev drives them over the kissing bridge, and Richie feels his heart give out for a few seconds, what with his hand being wound into Eddie's as tightly as their initials are etched into the wood mere feet away. So, he distracts himself by pretending to climb out the side of the moving truck, prompting Eddie’s screams of fury and a swift yank back into Eddie’s side. 

“Fucking moron,” Eddie scolds. 

“You saved me,” Richie moons, batting his lashes comically.

“Sit still, for the love of God,” Eddie snaps. “Where the hell are we going? Are we nearly there?” 

“Y’know, for a freshly sprung jailbird, you’re awfully grouchy,” Richie points out, wrapping his arm around Eddie’s shoulders. Even beneath the thick duvet he’s shivering. Richie sighs, bids a silent goodbye to his own carefully planned comfort, and starts wriggling out of his hideous and beloved sweater. The very same one currently Bev will no doubt soon be rocking with much more success when she beats Richie at this competitive love confession bullshit. “Here ya go,” Richie says, shoving the sweater down over Eddie’s head, leaving him to sort out getting his arms through the sleeves, “now simmer down and let us whisk you off with fewer complaints.” 

The thick material bunched around his chin like a garishly patterned ruff, Eddie stares at him with a mixture of confusion and indignation. “Uh… won’t you be cold?” 

“I’ve got you to keep me warm,” Richie leers, invading his personal space. Reluctantly, Eddie begins pushing his limbs into the sweater, wrinkling his nose at the random assortment of jagged, multi-coloured shapes that decorate the front of it. An abstract masterpiece, in Richie’s opinion. “Better?” 

Eddie nods, mutely. He leans back against the wall of the truck, attention turning to the shrubbery lining the roadside as they crawl past. Richie slings his arm back around those bony shoulders, slightly smug. Eddie’s stopped shivering. 

*

The clearing Bev takes them to is a liminal space up a shallow hill, a few miles out of Derry. A sort of in-between spot, halfway to the next town over. It’s a hill Richie’s seen dozens of times from his parents’ car’s backseat window, one that his eyes glossed over without a thought. He questions Bev when she turns off the road, bumping the truck carefully over the dirt track towards it, but when she pulls up the handbrake, Eddie tugs his arm, pointing up at the sky, and he gets it.  Outside of the polluted city air, up on an elevated ledge like this one, the stars are bold and brilliant. They’ve been flicked across the sky like droplets from a paintbrush, millions of them, trillions perhaps; all four of them - born and raised city kids - take a good few silent minutes just to stare. 

“Have there always been that many?” Ben asks; without the rumble of the truck’s engine, everything is deathly quiet, so Richie and Eddie can hear the others from the front, clear as bells. 

“No way,” Richie says, swallowing something sharp lodged in his throat, “there’s definitely some new fuckers up there. Who are those clusters?” He raises a middle finger to a particularly glowy bunch. “Go back to your own galaxy!” 

Eddie giggles, breathless; his eyes are wide and round. Adorable. Nothing on God’s green Earth could stop Richie from pressing a kiss to his head, so he does. Eddie flicks a worried glance at him, then at the window through which the backs of Ben and Bev’s heads are visible, but he doesn’t object. 

“This is…” Eddie starts to say, then trails off. “Thanks, guys. I needed this.”

“No better remedy for claustrophobia than the widest open space you can get to in a half hour drive,” Bev says wisely. She looks over her shoulder, giving Eddie one of her softest smiles. “Glad to help, buddy.” 

Eddie smiles too, then leans back, pulling Richie with him as he shifts to lay down, duvet practically pulled up to his chin. He fixes his gorgeous doe eyes on the stars, and Richie fixes his shitty, bespectacled eyes on Eddie’s face, all lit up by their dewy glow.  From the front of the truck, the low murmur of Ben and Bev talking drifts above the distant sound of a faraway busy road. 

Eddie shivers; Richie suspects that this time, it’s not from the cold. “Rich?” 

“Mm?”

“You told her,” Eddie says, voice blank, “didn’t you?” 

Panic churns the acids in Richie’s stomach. He tries not to let it come out in his voice. “Who?”

“Bev. You told her that we…” 

Richie wishes Eddie would finish that sentence. He longs to know what they do. What they are. In Eddie’s mind. He has no clue how the hell he is expected to respond, given that he has no more idea of what’s happening here than Eddie, apparently. Has he done something wrong? Is Eddie mad? He doesn’t sound mad, but maybe he’s waiting for Richie to confirm his trespass, and then he’ll start bitching and yelling and storming off-

“It’s ok,” Eddie says unexpectedly, distilling the raging waters of Richie’s paranoid brain. “I get it. You trust her.”

Richie swallows, begging his dumb trashmouth not to screw this up and say the wrong thing, for once. “I… actually didn’t need to tell her, Eds.” 

Eddie unsticks his eyes from the sky, turns to look at him. “What do you mean?” 

Awkwardly, Richie winces. He’d thought Eddie remembered. “Guess you were pretty out of it. You, uh. You kissed me in front of her.” Eddie’s eyes stretch open even wider; he looks like a cartoon bunny, straight out of Looney Tunes. “The other night, with the pot chocolate.”

“Fuck,” Eddie whispers. His breath is a silver wisp. “Did the others see, too?” 

“No, no,” Richie assures him. “They all trundled off on some weird sparrow-seeking hike. I don’t think you even realised Bev had stayed behind, honestly. Don’t exactly peg you as the exhibitionist type.”

“No,” Eddie says vehemently. “I don’t even remember doing it. That’s so nuts.”

They fall back into silence, which Richie obviously has to break. He pokes Eddie in the side, making him jump. “Don’t sweat it. S’just ‘cause I’m so gorgeous and irresistible. The other guys lined up for their turns on the old Rich-meister when they got back too-”

Eddie hits him with the back of his hand, then shoves it into Richie’s armpit to warm it up. Kinda gross, maybe, but if Eddie is okay with it, then Richie’s sure as hell not going to object. 

“No wonder my mom smelled it on me,” Eddie mumbles. “You had your fucking marijuana tongue in my mouth.” 

Richie laughs, barks it into the open sky, and pulls Eddie closer into his chest. 

*

They stay out there, underneath the twinkling stars, for a few hours. Time seems less than real out here, caught in a pocket between places, not a single clock-face between the four of them. Richie says he can use the stars themselves to tell the time; the others don’t believe him, and he’s lying, but it makes for good entertainment while he conjures up a snooty scientist Voice and explains the process.  There’s a point, about an hour in, where Ben and Bev decide to wander down the hill for a while. They say it’s because they want to stretch their legs, but Richie knows they want to talk in private. He wonders if this will be the night he’ll lose this competition he has with Bev. If she’s found her moment to tell Ben how she really feels. 

Richie rolls onto his side, intending to study Eddie’s profile and begin swirling a tornado of self-deprecating thoughts about how he’ll never be brave enough to do the same. But Eddie rolls onto his side too, the moment Ben and Bev are gone, and kisses Richie sweetly, his lips like primrose petals, his tongue like the nectar within. 

Making out with Eddie feels both comforting and dangerous, innocent and reckless.  Richie traces the outlines of him with his fingertips: the nape of his slender throat, the point of his chin, the arch of his eyebrow. 

Eddie bats his hand away, annoyed. “Quit tickling me.” 

“You’re so perfect,” Richie finds himself saying; his dumb, oversensitive heart is close to overflowing. 

Eddie draws back, searching, concerned, for the joke in his expression. “What?”

But Richie doesn’t get a chance to respond. Bev’s voice is the first to drift back into hearing distance. They both sit up, peering over the edge of the truck, and spot her and Ben cresting the top of the hill, hand in hand. 

“Is this a double date or something?” Eddie asks, eyes narrowed. 

“Aw, you saying we’re on a date, Eds?” 

Eddie hits him absent-mindedly, still staring at Ben and Bev’s clasped hands. “D’you think she told Ben about...?”

Richie leans forwards, resting his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. “Nah. She wouldn’t.”

“He might suspect anyway,” Eddie suggests; there’s a flicker of panic detectable in his voice. “‘Cause this _does_ seem a lot like a fucking double date.” 

Richie grins, delighted by this thought. “How am I doing so far, with the date?” 

“You get a point for giving me your sweater,” Eddie reluctantly admits, “but as it’s literally the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, I’m taking the point back.”

Affronted, Richie straightens up. “What! You can’t take points away! What about the location? It’s romantic as shit out here.”

“Bev chose the location.”

“What about if I tell you how pretty you look in the starlight?”

“Now you’re just sucking up,” Eddie says. 

“What’s Richie sucking up?” Bev asks, approaching the truck. 

She hops into the bed with practiced ease, shimmying beneath the opposite end of the duvet, her back against the far edge, her feet bumping against Richie's. Ben joins her, with considerably more of a struggle, slotting into the makeshift bed at her side, opposite Eddie. 

“Eddie’s mom’s-” 

Eddie slaps a hand over Richie’s mouth, sighing. 

“Thanks, Eddie,” Ben says solemnly. “The world is better off not knowing the end of that sentence.”

“Mmpfelroonmeph!” Richie finishes saying into Eddie’s palm. 

They talk about school, and Bev’s new classmates, the bitchy girls that hate her, and the even bitchier girls that have decidedly adopted her into their gang. She rolls a joint like she's barely thinking about it, and Richie’s heart sings. When she offers it around the group, Eddie wrinkles his nose.

“Gone off the stuff, Spaghetti?” 

“I was never on the stuff,” Eddie grumbles, arms folded, narrowly watching as Richie inhales. “Despite what my mom thinks.” 

“It’s not as intense if you smoke it,” Bev says, taking the joint back. 

She offers it to Ben, who surprisingly accepts it, taking a short, adorable puff before coughing into his fist. Bev looks on like a proud mother. 

“I’m not smoking anything,” Eddie says firmly. “I have asthma." He frowns. "...Probably.” 

“Could do blowbacks,” Richie jokes, accepting the joint from Ben as it comes around the circle, bypassing Eddie. 

“What’s that?” Eddie asks. 

Bev giggles. “It’s where one person takes a hit and exhales the smoke into another person’s mouth. You’d hate it.” 

“Eddie’s worst nightmare,” Ben jokes. But Eddie’s not retching in horror. 

In fact, the look he wears is one of deep, careful contemplation. His eyes are fixed to the meet of the joint against Richie’s lips. “Whaddya say, Eds?” Richie jokes, smirking. "Fancy giving blowbacks a try?" 

“Okay,” Eddie replies, and Richie’s heart stumbles over its next beat. 

“Uh, what?” Ben asks, but Richie can’t summon the strength to look at him. 

“There’s less chemical potency in secondhand smoke,” Eddie explains, shrugging. It would be a convincing argument, maybe, if Richie weren’t close enough to feel his hands shake. “And you guys are all gonna be stoned. I don’t wanna be the only sober one.” 

The joint in Richie’s fingers is going out. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Bev hurrying to roll a fresh one; that magnificent girl is the ultimate wingwoman. Richie flicks the dud over the edge of the truck and leans in close to whisper to Eddie. 

“Uh, you sure about that, Eds?”

“You don’t wanna?” 

Richie almost laughs at the question. “Oh, pucker up, Princess.” 

He leans forward before Eddie can tell him off for the forbidden nickname, reaching over their jumble of quilt-covered legs to retrieve the new joint from Bev’s offered hand. She’s feral-eyed as she catches his gaze, a fizzing bottle of excitement as their fingers brush. He winks at her, mouths ‘I’m winning’, and leans back into Eddie’s side, stomach churning rough and wild. 

“Kay, here’s how it goes-”

Eddie pinches Richie’s lips shut, eyes narrowed. “You breathe in a lungful of toxic narcotic, seal your big dumb mouth over mine, and breathe your nasty Cheeto-breath into my until-now undamaged lungs. I got it. I’m not  _ dumb _ .” 

He releases Richie’s lips. 

“Gold star,” Richie mumbles; he catches the lighter Bev throws him and brings the flame to the tip of the joint held between his lips. He sucks a few times to get it going, then nods to Eddie, draws in a huge lungful, and holds it. 

Eddie kneels, one hand coming to steady himself on Richie’s shoulder. Richie smiles, hoping his silent message of 'feel familiar?' is gleaming in is eyes. Eddie either doesn't understand the telepathic message, or chooses to ignore it in favour of getting this over with. He leans in, eyes falling closed, lips parted, so Richie brushes his own against them and exhales the smoke that's burning deep in his chest.  He brings his hands up to cup around their barely touching lips, trapping the smoke as he lets it out, slow, making Eddie wait for the breath to trickle through the channel of their mouths. Eddie breathes in deep, eyes closed in concentration, his chest puffing out to meet Richie’s as his lungs expand. It’s a long, drawn out moment; only when Richie is squeezing the last dregs of smoke from his own lungs does he let up, leaning backwards and waiting for Eddie’s eyes to flutter open. Eddie draws his own lower lip into his mouth, tasting the last of it. 

A low, steady chuckle sounds; both of them turn to look at Ben, his arm now round Bev’s shoulders, eyebrows raised. “Wow. All sorts happening tonight.”

Richie flips him a half-hearted middle finger, gaze already refocusing on Eddie, who is being oddly quiet. “You okay?”

Eddie nods, eyes glazed. His pupils are the size of chocolate buttons. He points a slow finger to the joint in Richie’s hand. “Can we go again?” 

This time, Richie hands the joint back to Bev after he’s sucked in a lungful - it’s a good thing he does, because the moment their lips brush, Eddie is tugging him forwards, until Richie is half draped over him, their mouths decidedly more than grazing now. Richie’s about to pull back, thinking Eddie must have forgotten, again, that they have an audience, but Eddie doesn’t let him. He winds his fingers into the flap of Richie’s shirt collar, holding him in place as his tongue traces Richie’s lower lip. 

Changing tack, Richie tries moving his attention to Eddie’s ear - an area he’s recently discovered is ripe with sensitivity. “Eds, remember we’re just supposed to be doing blowbacks-”

“Don’t care,” Eddie grunts out, pulling Richie’s face back around so he can smush their lips together again. “Come closer. ‘m cold.” 

Obedient as a pup in the face of Eddie’s discomfort, Richie shimmies towards him beneath the quilt, arms encircling his tiny frame, drenched in the too-big sweater. As the kiss grows softer, deeper, more intimate, the sound of tentative, unsure chatter begins from the other end of the truck bed, and Richie relaxes; the others, it would seem, have moved their attention on. 

It seems that hours tick by, but Richie’s  _ almost _ certain he can’t have spent that long making out with Eddie beneath the stars, in the cold, on the floor of a hard metal truck. He thinks he hears Bev and Ben macking too, at some point - the moist smack of mouths aside from his and Eddie’s - but truly he’s under hypnosis, submerged in the treacle-thick bliss of Eddie’s hands on him, like a drug all on its own. 

There’s no doubt, based on the mounting evidence, that weed apparently makes Eddie incredibly randy for some reason. It’s only when the unmistakable shudder and cough of the engine rolling over spears the bubble Richie is happily encased in, that he is coherent enough to pry Eddie’s hands from his neck and lean back to take a breath. Eddie pouts and makes noises of distress - very distracting - but Richie manages to stay strong, struggling up towards the window into the front and tapping on the glass.  Ben turns, as Bev is already wrestling the gear stick into drive; he wears a knowing, slightly stoned smile. Richie does his best to ignore it for now. 

“Where are we going?” he shouts over the engine’s deafening gurgle. 

Eddie grips his wrist from below, suddenly anxious. “Tell Bev we don’t wanna go home yet.” 

“Relax,” Ben says, “we’re hungry. Gonna drive to a diner for some grub.”

“Oh,” Richie says, sinking down again. Ben salutes him as he disappears out of sight, and Richie happily gets ahold of Eddie once more, manhandling him under his arm as he settles in for the ride. “Hungry, Eds?”

Eddie nods emphatically. He’s brought his sleeve-covered hands to his mouth to blow on them for warmth, so Richie takes over, cradling each one in his beneath the quilt. Eddie sighs happily, resting his head on Richie’s shoulder. 

“Buckle up boys!” Bev shouts from the driver’s seat as the truck bounces down the hill. “May or may not have a deflating tyre, so you’re likely in for a bumpy ride.” 

“We have nothing to buckle up  _ with _ ,” Eddie mumbles, but his voice lacks its usual shrill terror, so Richie just cuddles him closer, and it seems to placate him just fine. 


	7. Chapter 7

“Aaand he’ll have the pancakes,” Richie tells the bored looking waitress, gesturing to the sweater-drowned boy coiled into his side. “Extra blueberries, and lots of cavity-inducing syrup.” 

She takes the laminated menu from him with a vague nod and turns to Bev and Ben. 

“How’d you know I wanted pancakes?” Eddie asks Richie in awe, chin resting on Richie’s shoulder. 

“Sweetums, you haven’t shut up about pancakes the entire drive over here,” Richie tells him fondly. He boops Eddie’s nose, making him frown. 

“Oh,” Eddie says. His eyes alight. “Oooh let’s get fries too!”

The waitress’ gaze slides back over to them. Her pen stops scritching on her pad. “You want fries too?” 

“He can have some of mine,” Richie assures her. 

“No! I want my own fries,” Eddie cries, pouting. He pushes Richie’s shoulder, indignant.

Helplessly, Richie shrugs at the waitress, now waiting with flared nostrils. “Guess he’ll have his own fries, then. Want them sprinkled on top of the pancakes, Eds?”

“Eugh, no!” 

Bev splutters, head falling into her hands. Richie sends the waitress one last shit-eating grin; she rolls her eyes, scribbles something on the pad, and wanders off. A woman at the next table over, dressed in what is unmistakably church finery (there’s a 24-hour chapel next door), sends a disapproving look in their general direction. Before Richie can stop him, Eddie is sticking his tongue out at her. Richie slams a hand over his mouth, making Eddie shriek and retch before wiping his tongue clean of germs on a napkin. 

“Don’t think I can’t see how your eyes are red as the Devil’s fire,” the woman at the neighbouring table calls, jabbing a fat finger at them. “The Lord sees your sins. If you don’t repent and ask His forgiveness-”

“Yeah, yeah, lady,” Bev interrupts in a sigh. “We’re all Doomed. Least it’ll be toasty warm down there. Now piss off and let us get back to sinning in peace, would you?” 

The woman recoils like Bev has struck her, huffing and muttering to herself, fist closed around the cross hung between her considerable bosom. Eddie cackles into Richie’s shoulder; Ben is the only one who looks scandalised by the encounter. 

“Man, Eds, you really let loose with a little weed in your system,” Richie says, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “You’re a bad influence on sweet, innocent Ms Marsh here.”

Bev holds up a rigid middle finger, and Eddie wriggles into the embrace, happy and beaming. He and Bev begin a tongue-out staring contest, which Eddie repeatedly loses due to not being in full control of his drooping eyelids at present. This provides ample entertainment until the food is brought out. It’s the weed vacuuming out their stomachs, probably, but the second the plates hit the table, all four of them become ravenous lions, snatching handfuls of the food and shovelling it in without a word. 

A few minutes into the feast, Bev slows down, leaning back to sigh in contentment and sip her Diet Coke. “Hey, let’s play Truth or Dare,” she suggests, eyes sparkling. Richie narrows his, suspicious. “Eddie, wanna go first?” 

“Sure,” Eddie replies, dunking a french fry into the syrup pooling on his pancakes. Richie would be horrified if he wasn’t so impressed by the initiative. He takes one of his own fries and does the same, making Eddie swat him in the arm. “Get your own syrup, jerk. I pick truth.” 

Richie sends Bev a warning look, discreetly as he can. She breezily ignores it, and says, “What’s Richie packing down there? Size-wise.”

Eddie chokes on his french fry. Even as Richie pounds Eddie on the back, he manages to throw a few pink packets of sweetener at Bev’s head. Snorting with laughter, Ben gestures to Eddie’s coughing fit with his fork. “Think he’s reliving it.” 

“Benjamin!” Richie cries, voice half-British in the shock and confusion. “I have half a mind to admonish you for such vulgarity. But on the other hand, up top for the compliment of insinuating I could charm someone as hot as Eddie into going anywhere _near_ my dick.” 

Still laughing, Ben meets his high five in the air. More or less recovered now, Eddie yanks Richie’s hand down with a glare, then turns back to Bev, pink-faced. “I have no more idea than anyone else in the world, aside from Richie, how big his dick is, thanks very much.” 

“Even I can’t say for sure,” Richie says, relaxing back into his seat with a leer, “scientists world over are baffled.” 

“Never has there been a penis so small that it’s invisible to the naked eye,” Ben tacks on, quick as a whip; begrudgingly, Richie holds up his hand to Ben for another high five. The guy's on a roll. 

“Alright, alright, jesters,” Richie says to the group, currently tearing up with laughter, "I think it's Bev's turn. Truth or Dare, you conniving witch?"

A loud tut resounds from the neighbouring table; Richie has to catch Eddie's hands in his to stop him throwing salt from the shaker.

Bev smirks coolly, slurping her Coke through a straw. "Dare." 

Eddie pulls his hands free as Richie thinks, glancing around the nearly empty diner for inspiration. From the table in front of her, Eddie snags Bev's folded up heart-shaped sunglasses, bringing them up close to his face for inspection. _Please don't put them on_ , is Richie's silent plea. _The waitress is already annoyed at us. Having to clean up the gooey mess of my heart when it projectile flings itself out of my chest will not earn us any favours._ Oblivious, Eddie opens the pink plastic arms of the glasses, and slides them over his tiny, overly-sensitive ears. The dark lenses, framed by pink hearts, sit in front of his eyes; he looks like a Lolita-style Playboy model, if they ever played to Richie's interests of gorgeous, freckle-faced teenage boys. 

"Fuck," Richie mutters, mouth hanging open, and Bev snorts so loud it makes Ben shoot her a startled look. Desperate for distraction from the vision beside him that is slowly but surely stiffening the growing hard-on in his pants, Richie lands his gaze on Church Lady. Inspiration strikes, as though sent down from the Heavens in one of those miracle rays of light they probably harp on about in the chapel next door. "Okay, Bevvie," Richie says, aiming his wickedest smile in her direction and leaning forward, lowering his voice. "I dare you to pour this syrup," he picks up the glass bottle of maple that the waitress had slid across to Eddie without a word, and plonks it in front of Bev with a loud smack, "into our kind lady samaritan's handbag." 

Richie inclines his head towards Church Lady. Ben's mouth falls open. Nonplussed beside him, Eddie dunks a french fry into his syrup and munches on it, glasses still firmly on. Richie feels his dick twitch. 

"Fine," Bev says with a shrug, her voice pulling Richie's attention back with a snap. She's gesturing for Ben to slide out of the booth so she can get up. "Bitch deserves it."

"Bev! You're not really gonna-"

Bev silences Ben with a quick peck on the lips; quite the sight to behold, especially because Ben goes about three shades of purple afterwards. "She's a rude little busybody," Bev says by way of justification, "and it's a harmless prank. So her rosary and collection plate coin purse get a little sticky? Maybe washing them clean will remind her not to be so judgy of random diner folks." 

Begrudgingly, Ben sighs and relents, shimmying along the seat and standing up so that Bev can rise, gazelle-like, and head for the ladies room with an exaggerated hip sway. Whether that's for the benefit of Ben or the Church Lady, Richie's not sure. Ben says something about how he didn't even notice her swiping the maple syrup from the table before she got up, but Richie barely hears him, because Eddie's now run out of french fries, and is using his finger to scoop up the syrup drizzled around his pancake stack. He locks eyes with Richie as he sucks on the tip of his finger, lashes fluttering behind the glasses; Richie feels vaguely sick with how fast his blood is plummeting towards his dick. _He can't know what he's doing_ , Richie tells himself as he studies the pretty hollowing of Eddie's cheeks. _He can't_. 

"Oh, shit, she's coming back," Ben says, eyes wide and terrified. "Don't draw attention!"

With considerable effort, Richie drags his eyes away from Eddie, and flicks them subtly in Bev's direction. She's sauntering back from the bathroom, casual as anything, approaching Church Lady's booth from behind. As she gets near, she reaches into her oversized jacket and plucks out the bottle of syrup from an inner pocket, then drops to a crouch as if she were bending to tie her shoe. The handbag is on the floor by Church Lady's foot, but she's engrossed in one of her preachy leaflets, lips muttering the words as she reads. Bev sends them all a mischievous wink, then raises the bottle as if in a toast, tips the spout, and lets at least half its contents flow into the bag. 

Eddie immediately starts giggling uncontrollably, so Richie has to pull his face into his chest so Church Lady won't get suspicious. Ben hides his face in his hands until it's over; he doesn't emerge until Bev taps him on the shoulder. As she slides back into her seat, avoiding all three of the amazed looks aimed her way, she deposits the bottle of half empty syrup back on the table. 

"Done," she says simply.

Richie performs a well-deserved bow, forehead nearly landing in his fries. "Impressive, my liege."

"Is it your turn now?" she asks, head tipped sweetly to one side. The look on her face reeks of vengeance. 

"Ouch," Eddie mumbles, struggling free of the too-tight embrace Richie still has him in. He pulls off the sunglasses at last, putting them back on the table, and rubs the bridge of his nose. "I don't know how you cuddle me at night with your glasses on. Really hurts." 

Ben and Bev exchange a glance that Richie pretends not to see. "My turn?" he asks brightly. "I pick dare.” 

“Boring,” Eddie mumbles, so Richie cups a hand around his ear, leaning in. 

“What was that, pipsqueak?” 

“You always pick dare,” Eddie points out, shovelling a forkful of pancake into his mouth. His eyes flutter as he chews, likely because he hasn’t had this amount of sugar or carbs in years. The sight of his obvious pleasure means Richie has to sit on his hand to stop it misbehaving. “So you don’t have to answer any personal questions.” 

Richie splutters. “Isn’t 'dare' globally recognised as the ballsier choice? You’d rather I bare a piece of my blackened soul to you than watch me make a fool of myself doing whatever you choose?” 

“You have no problem making a fool out of yourself on a regular basis anyway,” Eddie says with an amused shrug. “I can see that anytime.”

He picks up a french fry from Richie's plate and places it into his mouth, locked gaze never faltering. An obvious challenge.

“He’s got a point,” Ben says, finishing off the last of his chocolate milkshake with an obnoxiously loud slurp. “Ugh, sweet Heavens. That’s my first non-calorie restricted meal in three months. Why are carbs extra delicious tonight?” 

“Startin’ to think you’re not on my side at all, Hanscomb,” Richie says, narrowing his eyes. “But fine, just to prove to you nerds that I’m the ultimate master of your silly game, I’ll pick truth. The _lame_ choice.” 

Bev holds up her middle finger, somewhat distractedly; she's watching church lady, waiting for her to notice the contents of her bag have been gooey-fied. She hasn't.

“Are you a virgin?” Eddie asks.

Richie balks, hands smacking the tabletop. “What!” 

Eddie shrugs, finger swirling in the runover syrup on his plate. “You’re always bragging about your sexual conquests. I wanna know if it’s bullshit.”

“You haven’t seriously been believing all the garbage he spews out, have you?” Bev asks, snorting derisively. “He once told us all that he’d ‘strummed Stevie Nicks’ Ukelele’ on her solo tour.” 

Eddie chuckles. “Not that shit. The stuff about the girl from his Hebrew school. The story of him seducing that androgynous older bartender. The conceivable stuff.” 

“Conceivable?” Ben asks, incredulous. “We’re talking about Richie having sex, right?”

“Nice,” Richie tells Ben, sincerely. The weed severely improves Ben's witty response abilities. Or perhaps he's always this quick, only usually he holds back on account of his gentle giant nature? Richie frowns, a wash of insecurity flooding through him. It’s getting warm in this diner, suddenly. Eddie is a furnace against his side. “Look, _obviously_ I’m not a virgin,” Richie says, loudly, boisterously.

At this point, Church Lady looks seconds away from chanting an exorcism at them. Eddie stiffens, the smile waning on his cute, syrup smeared lips.

“Wait, really?”

“No way,” Bev says, eyes narrowed. 

Richie stretches his legs out wide, enjoying their disbelieving stares. “Sorry folks, but once this hot bod hit puberty, there was no way to keep the ravenous, sexually mature mamas at bay.” 

Eddie is pulling out of his grip. He’s frowning hard, the remnants of his pancake stack forgotten. “I thought you were bluffing.” 

“Aw, Eds, you should know best of all about my virility,” Richie says, the set up of the joke delicious on his tongue. There's no way Ben is funnier than him, he decides as his brain rolls this gem around, letting the awkward tension build. He waits a second longer, watching the hue of Eddie’s cheeks turn from pink to tomato-red. Finally, he shows mercy. “After all, you’ve gotta hear me and your mom go at it every night.” 

Bev whoops with laughter, and Eddie punches him in the arm. Ben - lovely, not-as-funny-as-him Ben - lifts his hand in a high five. Richie smacks his own into it, _hard_. 

“So you are full of shit,” Eddie complains. “I knew it.” 

“Aw, Spagheds," Richie says, pinching his pink little cheek, "you know I’m saving myself for you.” 

Eddie smacks his hand away. Suddenly, a shrill cry of horror pierces the room; all four of them turn, wide-eyed, to watch Church Lady drawing her gloopified hand out of her bag.

"Think that's our cue!" Richie stage-whispers, already yanking Eddie out of the booth by his sweater sleeve.

*

The journey back is bittersweet. Even though he’s nearly asleep, Richie can tell Eddie is coming down from his high, anxiety gradually creeping back from the shadows, coiling tension into his small frame, quieting his ramblings. He cosies into Richie’s side, sighing heavy and hard at regular intervals. Richie holds him tight, thumb stroking over his upper arm. It sucks that the night is almost over, but it must be worse for Eddie, knowing that he has to go back to his awful jail cell of a pink bedroom for an indeterminable stretch of time.

They pull up to Eddie’s house, and nobody moves. Bev lets the truck idle for five minutes at least, which Richie is thankful for. She’s got to be exhausted, but she doesn’t hurry them, though the sun is beginning to creep over the horizon. Ben is asleep in the seat beside her, mouth open, head tipped back. She keeps the radio on, low enough that it's not invasive, but at a volume that probably drowns out his and Eddie's voices from the back. Eventually, Eddie shifts, sitting up to stare out of the truck at his prison, mouth set in a hard line. 

“I don’t want to go inside,” Eddie whispers, forlorn. A crack splits Richie’s heart; he feels the sharp slice of it through the doughy, sensitive flesh. He drops a kiss to the crown of Eddie’s head, making him sigh. “I think I might be able to convince mom to let me go back to school on Monday.”

“Yeah?” Richie’s sternum lifts up towards the sky. “That’d be great, buddy.” 

“That’s if I can shower off the pot smell before she sees me next.” 

“Such a delinquent.” 

Eddie smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks for this, Rich.” 

“Don’t get sappy with me now, Kaspbrak,” Richie replies, but he’s stroking a thumb over Eddie’s freckles. “I just couldn’t stand all the moping.” 

Eddie looks at him for a moment, long and intense, like he’s trying to work something out. Richie’s about to ask if he’s got smeary lenses again - a pet peeve of Eddie’s - but then Eddie leans in and kisses him, mouth dry and paper soft. When he leans away, there’s a dull resignation in his usually sharp eyes. 

“Catch you later,” Eddie says, a light blush on his cheeks; he can’t blame his affection on his high anymore. Richie wants to wrap his arms around that skinny body and hold him here, never let him escape. But then he’d be no better than Mrs K, and that’s a nauseating prospect. “Thanks, Bev,” Eddie calls, one hand on the glass, “you’re a goddess amongst women.”

“I know,” she sings back, but touches her own hand to his on the window, smiling softly. “See you soon, Eddie. Call me if you need to bitch about Richie, okay?” 

"I will."

“Fuck you both,” Richie says fondly. 

“Tell Ben I said bye,” Eddie says, suddenly looking a little worried as he surveys Ben’s unconscious form. “I imagine he might have some… questions.” 

“Nah,” Bev assures him, “he’s a big believer in keeping his nose where it belongs, trust me. It’s been half of our problem fighting our way out of the friend zone.”

Eddie smiles, not quite placated, but wriggles out of the quilt nonetheless. He’s over the side of the truck before Richie can think of any last parting words. He grabs onto Eddie’s arm, heart thumping, and swallows hard as those brown eyes latch to his. 

“Uh,” Richie says; in the background, he thinks he hears Bev snort at his romantic ineptitude. “My sweater.” Richie closes his eyes in frustration with himself. “I should probably take it back, right? It’ll reek of the good kush.” 

“Oh, right,” Eddie says, glancing down at himself as if he’d forgotten. “Yeah, hang on-”

“Unless-” Richie halts, mildly panicked. Eddie hesitates, one sleeve dangling. “I mean, unless you wanna keep it for now.”

Eddie holds his eye, pinkening slowly. A ripening peach. “I could wash it for you. Give it back on Monday.” 

“Yeah,” Richie breathes, shoulders un-tensing. “Yeah, cool.”

“Aw,” Bev says, watching from out of the driver’s seat window, chin resting on her interlaced fingers. 

Richie holds his middle finger up to her. She winks, and ducks back into the car. 

“I gotta get inside,” Eddie says, though he’s stepped forwards, small hands resting on the lip of the truck. Richie rises up onto his knees to meet him there. “It’s almost morning.” 

“Sunday morning,” Richie says, tutting. “Sneaking back into your house, stoned, on the Lord's day.”

Eddie snorts. “So are you.”

“He’s used to my antics,” Richie says. “He had such high hopes for you.” 

“Go home, loser,” Eddie says, finding Richie’s hand for a final squeeze. “See you soon.”

*

At lunch on Monday, Richie is busy recounting his weekend of teenage deviancy to the table of Losers, ignoring Ben’s pointed looks whenever he embellishes the tale or omits certain key aspects (the significant amount of tonguing that took place, for instance). He’s in the middle of describing the ferocious honking sound of Ben’s snores, when the chair beside his scrapes back. All five of them turn, bewildered because nobody ever approaches their table unless they’re a nervous girl beelining directly for Bill. It takes approximately half a second for Richie’s eyes to adjust, and when he realises who is lowering their cute tush into the seat beside him, his sentence collapses in on itself. He has to contain the screech of pure joy that bubbles up. 

“Eds?!” 

“Hey, the prodigal son returns!” Bill cheers from the other end of the table. 

Eddie lifts his hand in a solemn wave to the rest of the Losers, focused on prising the lid off his Tupperware lunch container. “Hey guys.”

Gobsmacked by the sight of him, Richie is finding it hard to unstick his boggled eyes. “I thought your mom must still have you locked up. You weren’t in Social Studies this morning.”

Eddie avoids his eye, lifting the top layer of his sandwich to peer inside, nose wrinkled. “Mom had a last minute change of heart about letting me back to school this morning. Took two hours and a call to the Principal to persuade her. I’m exhausted.”

Eddie takes a ginger bite of the sandwich, chewing warily. He grimaces at the taste, and seals the rest back into the Tupperware with a sigh. 

“Better late than never,” Mike says, reaching over to snag the abandoned Tupperware from him and set about feasting on the remnants. “Honestly I think we’d all have gone batshit crazy if we’d had to listen to Richie’s Eddie-deprived rambling for another day-”

Richie throws a balled up candy wrapper at Mike’s head. “Silence, traitor.” 

Eddie’s hiding a smile, but he still doesn’t meet Richie’s eye. Discreetly, Richie drapes an arm over the back of Eddie’s chair, hoping the movement seems casual and completely normal. Unfortunately, he chooses that moment to catch Ben’s gaze; the big guy says nothing, but he does quirk an eyebrow, likely too subtle for anyone else to note. 

Richie doesn’t retract the arm though. He _needs_ the closeness, now that Eddie is near enough to be close to. 

“You get any gnarly prison tats while you were on the inside, Eds?” Richie asks, by way of tactical distraction. “Maybe ‘Mommy’ in a heart with an arrow through it?”

“Fuck you. And don’t call me that,” Eddie snaps. 

Bill takes a deep, satisfied breath in. “Ahh, and the world is back to normal once more.” 

“Welcome back, Eddie,” Stan says, extending his sincere smile across the table. Eddie nods, flashing a quick responding smile, and there's a collective switch in eye directions as the subject of Eddie's miraculous reappearance is, to Richie's dismay, apparently shrugged off. “So," Stan says, "which of your admirers are you gonna take to the dance, Bill?”

Bill rolls his eyes, blushing faintly. “Audra, obviously. She’s my girlfriend.” 

“Right,” Stan says, eyes twinkling, “so Fiona from Drama club is just a friend?”

“Yes!” 

“Oh, God. There’s a dance coming up?” There’s no mistaking the dread in Eddie’s voice. On the seat at his back, Richie’s fingers twitch, wanting to touch, to soothe. He drums them against the plastic in a jaunty, erratic rhythm to stop himself. “Would you quit shaking my chair, Rich?”

Richie switches to actually shaking his chair, having a lot of fun with it until Eddie kicks him in the leg. Several of the others exchange eye rolls that clearly scream ‘here we go again’. 

“Yes,” Bill says, loud enough to distract them from their squabble, “it’s on Saturday. I think there’s a Spring theme.” 

“Rebirth or some shit,” Mike agrees, polishing off the last of Eddie’s sandwich. “Get enough of that at home, I’m telling you. Lambing season sounds real cute until you’re up to your elbows in sheep placenta.” 

“That’s disgusting,” Eddie says, and for once he’s not overreacting. 

“Woah, you didn’t tell us you were havin’ such a party down at the Hanlon farm,” Richie says, grinning. “Invite us over next time.” 

Mike sticks up his middle finger. “Alright, Tozier, who’re you taking?” 

He’s sure he doesn’t imagine the stiffening of Eddie’s sit bones on his chair. 

“I think we could all hazard a guess at that,” Bill interjects before Richie can talk. He’s grinning ear to ear; Richie can hear Eddie’s rapid breathing, suddenly. He predicts the quiet patting of pockets in search of an inhaler before it happens. Then, Bill says, “You’ve been getting on pretty well with Stella McKinley, right?” 

For the first time since he sat down, Eddie’s head turns, those narrowed eyes fixing to the side of Richie’s face. 

“She should be so lucky,” Richie answers coolly, leaning back in his chair. "She's a mere pair of ta-ta's in a long line of contenders, all jiggling in anticipation at the prospect of my courtship." 

The others all snort derisively, not picking up on the obvious deflection, and move on to interrogating Ben, Stan and Mike about their dates. As he leans back on his chair’s hind legs, artfully tuning out Eddie’s hysterical lecture about how he’s about to fall and break his neck, Richie can’t help but mull over the problem of Saturday night’s dance. He should, in truth, probably give the ‘date’ thing some consideration, as it’s fast approaching. 

Eddie ends up shoving Richie’s knees so hard in a downward direction - an attempt to plant all four chair legs on the floor - that Richie slips off, ending up half under the table. 

“That was your own damn fault,” Eddie tells him before he can complain. 

From the floor, Richie sends him a lazy grin. “Jeez, Eds, if you wanted me on my knees, you just had to ask.” 

*

It’s Tuesday afternoon, and Richie is hurrying to Biology. For the past week, he’s dawdled, taken the scenic route to class to piss off Mrs Carter. But it just so happens that Eddie is Richie’s permanent lab partner, and now that he’s back from house arrest, the idea of insect membranes and mitochondria is a lot more appealing. The anticipation of a full hour where Eddie is forced to endure his dumb jokes and thinly veiled flirtation is only slightly dulled by the sight of Stella McKinley, hovering beside Eddie at their workbench, talking at his furrowed brow. Richie approaches with trepidation, though for what reason, he’s not sure. 

“Rich-ieee!” Stella exclaims when she claps her big, blue-shadowed eyes on him. “You’re here before Mrs Carter for once, wow!” 

“I like to keep her on her toes,” Richie replies, quirking a smile at her. “Might try and throw her in detention for tardiness when she shows up.” 

She giggles, her hand coming to rest on the desk beside Eddie’s textbook. Eddie’s eyes bore into it like he's trying to laser her glittery nail polish right off. 

“It’s so good to once again see your shining face in its rightful place on the throne beside mine, Eddie-bear,” Richie declares as he swings around the bench to perch on his stool. He nods to Stella in acknowledgement. “Thank you for filling in, Ms McKinley, but you are no longer to be forced to suffer having a hyperactive miscreant as your partner. You’re relieved of Tozier duty. Your classroom thanks you for your service.” 

Stella laughs, loud and bright, her hand still splayed out on the desk. “I can think of worse punishments than being your partner, Rich.” There’s a hidden something-or-other tucked into her smile. Richie squints at it, trying to work out what it means. Girls are so confusing with their vague hints and subterfuges. Is Bill right? Has his and Stella’s camaraderie during the last week of temporary lab partnership blossomed into a budding crush on her part? To Richie, Stella is barely distinguishable from any other girl in the school, aside from the fact that she doesn’t give him the stink-eye whenever he’s in a four-foot radius. “ _Suuuure_ you don’t wanna swap with me, Eddie?” Stella wheedles, lip bitten. “Y’know, my partner is Katie Kirk, and she's back today too. Half the boys in here would sell their souls for a chance at being her lab partner this week. She still doesn’t have a date to the dance, y’know.”

“A tantalising offer,” Eddie says, dry as the fucking Nevada desert, “but I’m fine here, thanks.” 

“It’s just… Richie and I were doing so well with this latest project,” Stella tries; Eddie’s eyes flutter ceiling-ward in frustration. “And I know you missed last week, and so did Katie 'cause she was recovering from her nose job. So maybe it’d be better if-”

“Richie’s been bringing me all his Biology notes, and the homework,” Eddie snaps at her. “So, thanks for the concern, but I’m all caught up.” 

“Oh…” Stella looks put out, her last argument rapidly flopping. “Well, ok then. Let me know if, uh, you’re ever in need of a partner again, Richie.” 

Stella aims a coquettish wave at him before twirling around, ra-ra skirt flaring, to sashay back to hers and Katie’s bench. When Richie unsticks his eyes from her, Eddie is full on glaring. 

“Ouch, that laser vision burns, babe,” Richie quips, fanning himself with Eddie's workbook, then using it as a shield. “What’d I do to deserve the heat?” 

Eddie opens his mouth, obviously ready with a steaming retort, but before he can vocalise it, Mrs Carter walks in, harried and laden with worksheets. As she bustles about at the front of the class, erasing the chalk from the blackboard and setting up her desk, Eddie retreats into himself, lips pressing closed. He snatches back his workbook, then leans away from Richie, huddled at the other end of the desk. 

“Hey,” Richie says, leaning towards him, “you ok?” Eddie gives no response, pretending to take great pains over inking the date onto the page. “Wanna sneak out for a quickie?”

Eddie drops his pencil to glare. “Just shut up and open the textbook, dumbass.”

“Sure thing,” Richie says brightly, making a show of licking his thumb to flick through the pages. “Page sixty-nine, was it?” 

*

That night, Richie sneaks over to Eddie’s house. It’s getting to a point where it’s difficult to stop himself hurtling through the night on his bike to Lobelia Avenue, but Richie tries not to worry that he’s getting addicted to curling around Eddie’s sleeping body to get some decent shut-eye. He pulls up outside Eddie’s window at ten-thirty; by the time he’s scaled the building he’s about ready to drop, so he wearily raps on the window, waiting in the midst of the winding vines for Eddie to draw back his curtains. 

When he does, it’s with an indifference that is honestly a tad insulting. Eddie opens the window, but retreats from it almost at once, not bothering to help Richie through the gap. And ok, maybe that’s not entirely expected, but after the schmaltzy-ass night they had on Saturday, maybe Richie was expecting something softer than just being made to wriggle over the ledge while the window gave up and smacked into his spine. 

Once inside, he stands on Eddie’s bedroom floor, wheezing quietly from the exertion. “Sup, Princess?”

“Take your shoes off,” Eddie growls from the bed, where he’s furiously scribbling something into a workbook. “I’m not scrubbing mud out of the carpet again.”

Richie raises an eyebrow, but does as asked. His left sock has a hole in the big toe. His right one doesn't match. “Doin’ homework? At this hour?” Richie waits, but Eddie doesn’t so much as look up. “Want some help from your pal's generously sized noggin, perchance?” 

“I’m fine, thanks.” Eddie’s voice is clipped.

Richie sidles over to sit on the edge of the bed, wary of the unstable grenade currently filling out his Arithmetic problems. “Everything… ok?” 

“Maybe you should sleep at your house tonight,” Eddie says, still not looking up. “I’m nowhere near finished.”

“Let me help, then.” Richie reaches out to grab the worksheet, but Eddie snatches it out of his grasp, scowling. 

“I’m not a dumb idiot,” Eddie snaps. “I can do my own damn homework.” 

Richie holds his hands up in surrender. “Woahhh-kay! Not even slightly what I said! You’re way smarter than me, Eds, I just don’t want you to stress out when I already finished this yesterday-”

“I am _not_ stressed out!” Eddie cries, throwing the worksheet and pencil to the floor. Two red spots appear on his cheeks. He takes a deep breath in through flared nostrils, regaining composure. “Look, I just don’t feel like… socialising. Okay?”

“Is that Eddie-speak for ‘I don’t wanna play tonsil tennis tonight’?” 

The red spots deepen in hue, changing to more of a crimson. He shrugs dramatically, arms folding across his chest. _Ah, at last, a classic Eddie tell_. 

“You’re mad at me,” Richie deduces, somewhat triumphant. He shifts closer, prising Eddie’s arms from their locked positions. “Did I make a distasteful joke without knowing it? I’m sorry Eds, you know I’m only half aware of the shit coming out of my trashmouth.” 

“Reassuring,” Eddie mutters, moody and low. Richie runs the word over in his brain, but can’t figure out what he means. “It wasn’t a joke you made.”

“So you _are_ pissed at me?” Richie pounces on the omitted truth with glee. He wishes people would just tell him straight out what he did to make them mad, sometimes. How is he supposed to keep track of every runaway bullet from the daily spray that fire out of his boisterous face? Of course there are bound to be a few that might go rogue, wounding innocent bystanders - particularly adorable, feisty ones who are often in close proximity. But he’s more than ready to grovel for forgiveness, if that’s the case. He just needs to know which bullet struck which body part. “Whatever I did, I’ll smack myself in the face for hurting you. Or you can do it.”

This catches Eddie’s attention. Richie angles his cheek, inviting a punch. Eddie seems to consider the offer for a moment, then sighs, and it’s back to cold-shoulder-ville. _Damn._ “Forget it.” 

“No can do, short stack.” Richie tries for an arm around the shoulders. It’s pretty swiftly shoved off, but when Richie hangs onto Eddie’s hand, he doesn’t yank it all the way free. A fairly good sign. “Is this about Saturday? Did I do something super cringey? Are you upset that Ben might know about… stuff?” 

Eddie’s eyes are beseeching and laced with pity when he lifts them. “No. I’m- honestly, I’m being dumb. But I’m still mad. So maybe you should just go and let me be alone to process it.” 

“Tell me and I’ll give you candy,” Richie offers, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Eddie’s eyes narrow. “You don’t have candy.”

Richie pats his jacket pocket to produce the tell-tale crinkle of the sweets inside. “Wanna take that chance, Princess?” 

“Okay, fine,” Eddie garbles, a flash of pink tongue darting out in anticipation. “Are you… are you gonna take Stella McKinley to the dance on Saturday?” 

The question hangs in front of Richie’s nose, bulbous and dripping with the soaked-in hidden meaning that Richie can’t squeeze out. Cautiously, he says, “might do, yeah. Why?” 

Eddie doesn’t reply for a moment, busy picking at a fleck of non-existent dirt on his bedcover. “No reason.” He draws up his shoulders and turns to face Richie, mouth set and firm. “Seriously, I’ve got a lot of work to do. Maybe you should go home.” 

“Uh-oh. Damage control needed.” Richie delves for the Nerds in his pocket and throws them into Eddie’s lap, then backs up, index fingers crossed to make a crucifix. “Demon, take this offering as a token of my idiocy-”

Eddie limply plucks the box of candy from his lap and places it on the bedside table. “I’m not in the mood to mess around right now, Rich.”

“Why’s it matter who I take to the dumb dance?” Richie presses, not about to let this drop if Eddie’s withholding his sweet kisses over it. “She’s pretty much the only girl who talks to me, so… not like I’m swarmed with options.” 

Eddie’s glare is so blazing hot that Richie actually leans back a little. “Seriously?” Eddie spits. “Do you like her or something?” 

“Stella? Uh, she’s okay,” Richie says, conjuring up a vague image of her bland face. Blonde, blue eyes, nothing to write home about. “She was a pretty cool lab partner while you were doin’ time.” 

“Better than me?” 

Richie laughs, thinking Eddie’s kidding. His face remains stoic and cold, so obviously Richie’s go-to move is to try and crack a smile from the marble. He elbows Eddie in the side, playfully. 

“Oh, heaps better. Stella’s got, like, a 3.8 GPA. We made a pretty good team, dissecting frogs and shit. She even let me peek in the microscope now and then.” 

“If I let you do it, you just made jokes about 'finally being able to see my dick through it'!” 

“Well duh! That’s comedy gold, Edward.” 

Eddie sighs roughly, making his worksheet page flutter. “So, you have a crush on her.” 

At this, Richie blanches, scandalised. “ _What_? Uh, Earth to Eddie-”

“You know what, fine. Take her to the dance. Hell, she can be your damn lab partner from now on. She’s been angling to switch with me anyway.” 

Richie’s mouth falls open, bewildered by the sudden turn of events. “You… wanna be lab partners with Katie the Jerk?” 

“Katie _Kirk_ ,” Eddie corrects, “she’s not that mean, I don’t know why people call her that. And yeah, maybe if I’m her partner, I’d actually be able to concentrate now and then instead of worrying you’re gonna make our dissected frog dance the lambada across the workbench!”

Richie swallows a giggle at this image. Why has he never considered performing this hilarious act before? “Eds, come on, I get that you’re mad right now, but you don’t really wanna be hitched to bitchy Katie for the rest of the year-” 

“Maybe I’ll take Katie to the dance, too!” Eddie cries, standing up now; he stalks to the window, pulling it open wide. “Maybe we can all go as a four, you and Simpery Stella, me and Killjoy Katie. Now fuck off, I don’t want you here tonight.” 

“Eddie, come back here and eat some candy, you’ll calm down-”

“No.” Eddie emphasises the refusal with a light stomp of his foot. He folds his arms, face set. “I want you to go, Richie.”

“This is because I’m asking some random girl to a dance neither of us care about?!” Richie cries, on the verge of tearing at his wild tangle of hair because he just doesn’t understand this shit. His brain works too fast to seek out the nuances of social faux pas’. He needs people to be clear and straight with him, or he’ll have to spend hours combing through all the probably offensive things he’s said in the past few days. Eddie usually knows this about him, knows to be blunt and tell him to stop being a shit about whatever particular thing he’s done. But now he’s being cryptic and weird and unhelpful. It’s agony. “Eddie, I don’t get it! Come on, why does it matter what chick I ask? I gotta ask someone! The other guys will all ask someone-”

“You’re so fucking dumb sometimes,” Eddie groans out, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. When he opens them again, he’s possibly even angrier. “Look, ask Stella. Ask fucking Stevie Nicks for all I care. Don’t even consider another possibility, fine!”

Too late - always too fucking late - the realisation dawns. It’s as huge and obvious as the moon hanging in the damned sky, but Richie is only clever in terms of academia. It's a cruel irony that he's dumb as a tack when it comes to almost everything that matters. He swallows hard. Takes a slow, tentative step towards Eddie, hand outstretched. He rests it gently on Eddie’s elbow, forcing himself to go slow, to think about how to approach this best, given that it’s clearly already Royally fucked. 

“Eds…” Richie begins. Eddie’s jaw tightens at the sound of his most hated nickname. _A great start._ “You know I can’t take you.” 

To Richie’s utter dismay, a layer of wetness wells up in the inner lids of Eddie’s wide brown eyes. 

“Shit,” he says, gripping harder onto Eddie’s upper arm, trying to figure out how to back up, to redo his attempt to appease. “I didn’t mean- Eddie, obviously, if things were- if you were a girl, or-”

“Please go home,” Eddie begs, tearing free of him. He goes to get a tissue from the box at his bedside, which he then scrubs furiously over his face to rid himself of the tears. When he turns around and Richie is just staring, despairingly, he groans. “Richie, I’m not fucking kidding! Go home.”

“Okay,” Richie whispers, because there’s only so long a person can reasonably stay after being asked to leave five times. “Okay, but we’ll talk about this tomorrow-”

“ _Go_.” 

Richie holds his hand up, ducking through the window. He has to fumble for the foot and hand holds in the dark, but he manages eventually. The window snaps shut as soon as his fingers are clear. The curtains close, and Richie is left to blindly guess how far the grass is beneath him, and drop to the ground.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, as you may have seen from the rating, this fic gets steamy af, starting with this chapter haha. They're horny teenage boys, what can I say? Even I can barely control them. 
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely, wonderful comments so far, I'm super happy you're enjoying it and apologies for the brief foray into angst-ville. All uphill from here lads.
> 
> xxx

For a full fifteen minutes, Richie waits by the school bike rack for Eddie to ride up, but he never shows. The bell rings, and still Richie waits, just in case Eddie is running late again. He waits ten more minutes, and then the school receptionist shouts out of the main doors for him to get inside, so reluctantly, he goes. The first glimpse he gets of Eddie is in the corridor, after Spanish. Eddie’s stuffing his books into his locker, skinny arms taut with concentration as he wedges them into his packed shelves. Richie knocks over a dude bent to tie his shoe in his eagerness to get over there. "Sorry man!" he cries, not stopping. He positions himself beside Eddie’s locker so that when he closes the door, his grinning face will be the first thing in sight. In retrospect, this is a poor choice of entrance. Eddie glowers the moment he sees him, hitches up his backpack on one shoulder, and starts to move off. 

Richie catches him by the arm. “Guess you’re still mad at me?” 

“I have to get to Chemistry,” Eddie says impatiently. 

“Sweet, I’ll walk with you.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, but starts walking again, Richie dodging through the bustle of students at his side. Eddie sets a brisk pace, his small stature expertly weaving through the throng, so Richie has to barge into several of his annoyed peers to keep up. 

“Say, Eds,” Richie pants, voice loud to be heard above the hubbub, “were you serious about asking Katie Kirk to the dance? ‘Cause I was thinking about it, and that could actually be pretty cool! We could all go together, and then-”

Eddie whirls around on the spot, stopping so abruptly that Richie barrels straight into him, nearly knocking him flat. “Oh yeah, that would suit you just great, wouldn’t it!” he shouts, shoving Richie hard in the chest. 

“Well…” Richie says, blinking, “yeah. It would.”

“Fuck off and find someone else to stalk today,” Eddie snarls. “I need a break.” 

He storms off, squeezing into the midst of a group of preppy girls and burrowing through them to the other side. As a shrug off, it’s damned effective. Richie side-steps the furious girls before they can blame him for his renegade buddy, and dejectedly heads for the Science block.

*

In Biology, the following day, Richie expects to have been forgiven. He even stayed away from Eddie’s window last night, sensing the little guy needed a while to cool off. It had been torturous, as he knew it would be, to sleep without Eddie after growing so accustomed to it, but it was a necessary torture to gain Eddie’s forgiveness, so he wears the dark circles with pride. 

When he strolls into the Biology lab, Eddie is sitting across the room by the window, next to Katie Kirk. Richie is about to beeline towards him and ask what the fuck he’s playing at, when he hears his name called in a familiarly excitable girl’s voice. He turns, and sure enough, Stella McKinley is sitting at his and Eddie’s workbench, practically bouncing on her stool in excitement. 

He gives her an unsure smile, still dithering. “Richie!” Stella calls again, in case, presumably, he hadn’t heard he the first time. “Richie, come sit down!” She pats the stool beside hers eagerly, grinning wide. Cornered by her slightly manic enthusiasm, Richie does as he’s told, kicking his backpack under the desk. “I hope this is okay,” she says as soon as Richie’s bum hits the seat, “I asked Eddie on Monday if we could switch because… well… you and I got on so well as, um, partners. And he said no at first, but today he was all for it! Isn’t this great? We’ll get to work on the cell mutation assignment together…”

At this point, Richie tunes Stella out. He sweeps his gaze across the heads of his classmates until it meets Eddie’s, glancing back over his shoulder. His demeanour is cool and indifferent. He looks away fast, and that’s the point at which Richie’s blood begins to simmer in his veins. He’s played nice for almost two days. Waited in the dog house for no reason, all because Eddie can’t seem to understand how school social structures operate. 

Sure, in an ideal fucking world, everyone could take their dream crushes to the school dance - Stan could take a Botswanian Parakeet, and Bill could take all six of his female admirers, and Mike could take Carrie Fisher dressed in the damn gold bikini he didn’t shut up about for three months. But real life is not a fantasyland, and Richie has to select a practical option here, or risk being the school’s biggest loser for the eightieth time running by showing up alone. 

He feels his jaw twitch as his teeth grind together, and tears his eyes from the back of Eddie’s tiny, dumb, pretty head. 

“...sooo,” Stella is saying with a giggly voice, tucking one strand of hair behind her gem-studded ear, “I was wondering if you’d asked anybody?” 

“Huh?”

“To the dance,” Stella says, slower. A light pink dusts her cheeks. “Have you got a date yet?”

Richie grins, leaning in towards her. “Well actually,” he purrs, “I have this one person in mind.” 

Stella giggles into her hand, even pinker now. “Who?” 

Richie lets the silence stretch a moment or two, then inclines his head to the front of the room, where Mrs Carter is faffing about with a stack of test papers. “Foxy blonde in the pantsuit,” he says, making Stella dissolve into laughter. “Think I got a shot?” 

“Not in Hell,” Stella says when she gets herself together, “but if she shoots you down, I'd consider offering you a pity date.”

She’s forward, and it’s not an unattractive quality, if Richie’s honest. Stella’s actually pretty cool, and if Richie hadn’t long ago had his heart ensnared by a bitchy, five foot tall hypochondriac, he imagines he might feel pretty damn lucky right now. Richie cracks a few more jokes about wooing Mrs Carter to deflect from how hard he’s weighing up the decision. In the end, it only takes Eddie’s answer, heard from across the room, to Mrs Carter’s query about his change of seats. 

“I wanted a different partner,” Eddie says dismissively. “My last one was distracting me from my work.” 

“Damn,” Stella whispers, hearing it too, “your friend’s kind of a priss, isn’t he?” 

Richie has to actively swallow an urge to shake Stella by the shoulders for saying this. Instead, he clenches his fists, turns to her and says, “so, you got any moves, Stels? Can’t have my date showing me up on the dancefloor. I’m renowned for my sense of rhythm.” 

He plunges straight into a horrible impression of the most off-beat, sitting-down pop and lock he can manage, while Stella’s face lights up, and laughs prettily. 

*

At lunch, Eddie sits at the other end of the table to him, which, whilst unsurprising, is still hurtful enough for Richie to purposefully chomp his way through six candy bars, knowing Eddie is likely having a small seizure with the effort of not screaming at him about the sugar content. By the fourth bar, Richie feels incredibly sick, but he’s no quitter, so he matches Eddie’s shrewd nostril flare with his own cool, measured gaze, and stuffs an entire Snickers into his mouth. 

Just as Richie’s choking down the sticky glob of nougat and peanut and caramel, Bill slots himself into a seat, then pulls Audra onto his lap. “Hey, Rich, congratulations!” he says brightly, sending over a genuine grin of delight. “Audra and I just had Math with Stella McKinley. She told us you two are going together on Saturday. That’s great, man. She’s a cutie.” 

Eddie’s face draws inwards; Richie can feel him tensing, preparing to get up and leave at the next opportunity that won’t draw attention. Something tugs hard in Richie’s chest; he feels the Snickers wad gumming up his oesophagus. The others all turn towards him, aiming strange looks his direction. _Answer Bill, you freak_.

“Oh, yeah… thanks.”

“She also said that she’s been trying to get Katie Kirk to ask you, Eddie,” Audra says excitedly, bouncing a little in Bill’s lap. “That’d be so fun! I love Katie, she’s so sharp. Has she said anything to you yet?” 

Eddie’s hand reaches towards his trouser pocket, patting it discreetly. Looking for his inhaler. He shrugs one shoulder, not meeting anyone’s eye. “She, uh, kinda said she would be ok with me asking her. In Biology.” 

“Oh my God, yay!” Audra cries, squeezing Bill’s shoulder. “That’s so great, Eddie! Now me, Bill, you, Katie, Stella and Rich can all-”

“I said no,” Eddie interrupts. His cheeks are pink. Mike and Bill exchange a concerned look. “I’m sure you guys’ll have a great time. I'm gonna sit this one out.” He stands, then, grabbing his untouched Tupperware box of lunch from the table. As he backs up, his eyes skim, briefly, over Richie’s. “I gotta go.” 

He’s across the canteen and through the doors before any of them can speak. 

*

At the crest of his despair, drunk off some awful thing called ‘port’ that he found covered in dust at the back of his dad’s liquor cabinet, Richie decides to call Bev. He’s heard from Ben before that the best time to call her is between eight and eleven at night, because those are the hours her dad is usually getting trashed at the pub. Richie checks his clock, blurry without his glasses; it’s nine o’clock. Go time. He jabs the number she wrote in all the Losers’ yearbooks before she left into his bedroom phone, and lets the receiver rest in the crook of his neck and shoulder as he lies back on the bed. 

She picks up after five rings. “Not interested in whatever you’re selling,” she says, by way of greeting. Then, when Richie hesitates, she follows up: “Uh, hello?” 

“Bev,” Richie manages, spurred on by the sound of her voice. There’s no exclamation of recognition on the other end of the line. “Iss me. Y’know. Richie” 

A long pause. In the back of his mind, a memory floats around, of Bev surrounded by fireflies, confessing that she doesn’t remember anyone from Derry when she’s not in the town itself. 

“Richie…” she says eventually, small and quiet. He can hear the thread of concentration in her tone, like she’s fumbling internally for it, trying to tug it out. “H-hang on…” 

“Okay, s-stutters,” Richie says, then hiccups, “y’sound like B-B-Bill.” 

“Bill?” Again, that strain in her voice. “Bill… Den...borough. Is that…?”

“Your second choice of man candy, yeah,” Richie supplies, giggling to himself. “Your backburner boyf. Y’know, if Ben doesn’t work out.” 

"Ben..." At last, Bev chuckles, soft and wonderous. “Wow,” she says, “I totally… forgot you for a while there, Rich.” 

“What was that like?” 

“Bliss,” she says, and they both laugh. 

A silence falls, and it feels too weighty with the terrifying concept of Bev’s repeated amnesia; none of them know how to handle it. Bev forgetting them is horrifying, given all that they’ve been through together. There are only seven people in the world who will ever understand one another fully, and the idea that one of them would happily never know them again, if they severed all ties with her, is nauseating. For now, Richie places that clusterfuck of a problem in a box at the back of his mind. They’ll figure out a way to handle it someday, as a group. 

“Are you alright, Rich?” Bev asks, unusually sweet and sincere. The typical cutting back and forth of their relationship must still be trickling back to her. “You don’t… normally call me. Uh, or do you?” 

Richie laughs. “No. That’s Ben’s job, mostly.” 

“So… is something up? Something with…” she hesitates, and Richie waits, patiently, for her to grasp hold of the name. “Eddie?” 

“Bingo,” Richie replies, bitter from the sound of those two syllables. He cranes his neck up to sip more port from the bottle, and still manages to spill some down his chin. “He’s being a li’l bitch. I need help, Bev. ’m fucking it all up.” 

He can almost hear her fond, exasperated smile. “What’s happened?” 

“So, y’know there’s a lame-ass school dance this weekend?”

He explains what’s happened, with Stella and Katie and the various fights they’ve had; as it spews from his crimson-stained lips, Richie can feel himself blushing from how incredibly pathetic it all sounds. How high school. Bev is so above this kind of shit, she must think he’s such a loser. Strung out over a boy, too. He's not even a normal loser. He's a queer one. When he’s done, there’s a brief silence, and the unmistakable _swit_ of a match being struck. His fingers twitch, as if prepared to reach for a cigarette when she offers. 

“Well, Rich,” Bev says in that wise, _I’m about to school your ass_ voice of hers, “you’re a fucking dumbass. But it’s the fault of your gender, so you can’t be fully blamed.” 

“Has anyone ever told you you have a gift for therapy?” 

She laughs, then pauses, likely to inhale her cigarette. “Your problem is so simple to fix it's actually worrying you didn't work it out yourself,” Bev tells him, which - whilst great to hear - perplexes him totally. “You want the same thing he does. You’re fighting over nothing.” 

“Well, duh,” Richie says, “but we can’t have the thing we both want.”

“Why not?” 

“Because…” Richie flounders, gesturing in the air with the port bottle, “b’cause we’d be _pariahs_. The last four years of high school would have been a merry walk round the zoo in comparison. Me and Eds showing up to the dance, hand in hand - that's jumping into the fuckin’ lions den!”

Bev listens dutifully, then breathes out long and slow. “Does Eddie care about that?”

Richie falters, trying to think. _Does he?_ “Uh… actually, he doesn’t seem too worried. Which, honestly, is kinda nuts. He worries about everything!”

“Think that should tell you something?” Bev asks, annoyingly astute as ever. 

Richie sighs, sitting up to sip more port. “That his mom gave him a complex and now he worries about stuff that doesn’t matter and ignores real problems?”

“Or,” Bev says, too quickly, “being with you overcomes his - extremely high - anxiety default.” 

“Crap,” Richie mutters, rubbing his eyelids with one palm. “I think I regret calling you and reminding you what an idiot I am.” 

“It’s a cute kind of idiocy,” Bev assures him. “The stupidly-in-love kind.” 

“He’s rendering me a fool,” Richie laments, bringing his eye to the spout of the port bottle, trying to see how much is left, and if his dad will notice what’s missing. “Ugh. Okay. I think I know what to do.” 

“I have all the faith in you,” Bev says. “It’s only Thursday. You’ve still got tomorrow to fix this.” 

“What if I pussy out and run away to New Jersey- oh wait, that’s your M.O., sorry.” 

“I’m holding up a middle finger at the sky right now, I hope it bounces off the moon and reflects onto Derry so you can feel its power,” she says, and Richie fully believes that she is. He holds one right back, aiming it at the window. 

“Miss you, Bevster,” Richie says, the ache of her absence throbbing, gently.

“Who are you again?” 

Richie laughs loud, setting the port bottle aside, and spends the next half hour grilling her about Ben’s macking skills. 

*

For the whole of school on Friday, Richie makes the tactical decision to leave Eddie more or less alone. It’s not that he isn’t dying to rush over and begin his attempt at smoothing over the jagged mess he’s made, but rushing in has always been Richie’s folly. He’s going to attempt a more measured, thought-through approach this time. Plus, this will all work better away from the prying eyes of the public; it’s always easier to coax Eddie into a good mood when it’s just the two of them. 

At lunch, Richie gobbles down a few bites of barely recognisable matter provided by the aging lunch lady, then makes a poor excuse and leaves the others, including Eddie, to continue their conversations. He waits out the rest of the hour in the library, where nobody, not even Eddie, would think to look for him. That night, Richie spends a few extra minutes in front of his mirror before he heads out. He’s showered already, but finds a comb in a drawer that he’d forgotten he owned, and wrestles it through the front few chunks of his hair, then gives up. His hair looks almost exactly the same anyway, so it was barely worth the tears of pain that have now given his eyes a reddish tinge. 

He cleans his glasses as best he can, and chooses his least garish shirt to wear over a plain white t-shirt. He douses his neck with a few sprays of the aftershave his dad bought him last birthday - proof, in Richie’s opinion, that Wentworth Tozier knows his son as well as he knew John F. Kennedy. After that, Richie lets himself be. He’s gotten this far into Eddie’s affections without making the slightest change to his usual appearance, though God only knows what accidental blunders the angels of fate made for that to happen. He walks out of his front door at ten o’clock, plenty late enough to be sure Sonia won’t catch him, and cycles to Eddie’s through the balmy night, rehearsing everything he’s spent all day planning to say.

At the first sight of Eddie’s face through the curtains as he pulls them back, Richie’s mind goes utterly blank. It’s surprising that Eddie even hauls open the window, given that he’s still so pissed, but Richie doesn’t make a habit of looking gift horses in their mouths, so he pushes his way inside the moment the gap is wide enough for all his long limbs. Eddie glowers, arms folded across his chest in the middle of the room, hair mussed from being propped against his pillow and-

Richie pauses, breath caught in its way up his throat, stopping the words that had been about to form. Eddie’s wearing Richie’s sweater. The hideous, 99 cent one with the jagged zig-zag rainbow pattern. Confused, Eddie follows Richie’s gaze and gasps quietly, realising his mistake. His hands clutch the hem, obviously thinking about pulling it off, but he stops, looks up, a rabbit in a torch beam. The damage has already been done.

He squares his jaw, and meets Richie’s eye. “It’s warm,” is Eddie’s adorable excuse. “You said I could have it.” 

“You said you’d wash it,” Richie replies, because he can still smell the faint, earthy pot-scent emanating off the thing. 

Eddie’s cheeks burn; he lowers his eyes to the floor. “What do you want?” 

Fantastic. Richie’s been here less than a minute and has already humiliated him. 

“I- I came to ask you something,” Richie says, deciding to leap right in before he fucks this up any more. 

“If it’s to borrow a dress shirt, you’d be better off asking Bill. You’re too long and wiry for mine.” 

“No, not that,” Richie says softly, and takes a cautious step forwards. 

Eddie frowns, backing up at once. “You remember I’m mad at you, right?” 

“You make it hard to forget, Princess.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie snaps, but that blush is still going strong. “I know you’re gonna ask me to ask Katie Kirk to the dance, but I’m not going to. She doesn’t even wanna go with me! She’s just asking ‘cause your stupid date told her to-”

“Oops, sorry to interject when you're mid-tirade, but Stella’s actually not my date,” Richie says with a ‘what can you do’ shrug. "Ok, continue." 

Eddie does not continue. He stands there, eyebrows pinched, trying to wrap his brain around Richie's unexpected comment. “Uh, yeah she is. She told, like, everyone in the year. She’s matching her dress to the 'exact shade of your lips', apparently.” 

Eddie doesn’t bother to hide his disdain for this horrendous - but unfortunately true - rumour Stella had begun spreading around, and for that Richie is grateful. 

“Mm, yeah, I got to thinking that perhaps Stella’s dress was better suited to a different pair o’smackers.” 

Eddie balks. “What?”

“I told her thanks but no thanks,” Richie says, slipping off his shoes before stepping further into the room. He looks around, as if he hasn’t got every inch of this adorable pastel boudoir imprinted onto his brain. The fringed rug. The multitude of silky throw pillows. The vaguely creepy doll in one corner. The framed photo of Eddie, his mom and his dad at Disneyland, back before Eddie’s dad passed away, and Sonia went bonkers from the grief. “Think you had it right after all,” Richie says. “No point going at all if you’re not going with who you really want.” 

Eddie toes the carpet with his socked foot, arms wrapped around his middle. In the enormous jumper, he looks even smaller than usual. Every atom of Richie’s being screams out, begging to touch him; it’s been so long now. Longer than Richie has gone without touching Eddie, even to tease or tickle him, for a long time. But he has to stay strong a little longer, or he’ll ruin this entirely, perhaps forever. 

“There’s someone else you wanna ask to the dance?” Eddie asks, sounding vaguely hopeless. 

Richie has the sudden urge to beat someone up for making Eddie look this way, but it would mean punching himself in the face without warning, so he suppresses it. “Yeah,” he says instead, then takes a huge step closer, forcing his facial expression into something he hopes resembles sincerity, “you wanna go to the dance with me, Eds?” 

The silence that follows isn’t particularly reassuring. Eddie’s eyes search Richie’s face for the joke he must be so sure is coming. When it doesn’t, Eddie frowns. 

“You said…”

“I know,” Richie interrupts before Eddie can finish. “I said that I couldn’t ask you. But, see, I forgot to mention that I’m a huge dumbass.” 

Eddie chuckles, which is just… it’s the loveliest sound Richie’s ever heard. “I know that already.” 

Richie smiles, warm and wide, nodding. “It doesn’t matter. Any of it. The rest of the world, people saying shit, calling us names or whatever. None of that boring, unoriginal shit matters at all. Because you wanna go with me, right?” Eddie doesn’t nod, but Richie knows, from the yearning glisten in his eyes, that the answer is yes. Richie’s hands clasp together. “That, Eddie, is the biggest fuckin’ miracle of a thing that has ever happened. You wanna go with _me_ ? Above _Katie fuckin’ Kirk_?” 

“Well, I _did_ ,” Eddie corrects, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth, Richie just needs to tease it out. “But then you went and behaved like a total ass.” 

“Yeah! A dumbass, we’ve been through this, keep up,” Richie says, and Eddie laughs again, arms unfolding. “What I’m trying to say, Eds, is that of course I fuckin’ wanna take you to the dance. I wanna take you to every dance, every time one of these lame things rolls around. I fantasise the _shit_ outta picking you up and pinning a li’l cornflower to your wrist, and slow dancing with you to a corny Fleetwood Mac song, and- and all the other Molly Ringwald crap people do at these things. But first of all, I’ve always been too much of a pussy to even consider trying to make that pipe dream come true, and second of all… Eds, I _never_ thought you’d actually want that too!”

Eddie sighs, rolling his eyes. He fidgets, shifting from foot to foot like he’s mulling over a deep thought. Then, he steps forwards, pressing himself into Richie’s chest. At first, Richie thinks it might be a very weak tackle, but then he realises he’s being hugged. His arms wrap around Eddie so tightly that he lifts him off the ground a little, making him squeak. 

After a while, Eddie pulls back to look at him, pink and pleased. “I want to go to the dance with you,” he says, enunciating slowly and clearly, “you huge fucking dumbass.” 

“Score,” Richie says, hands on Eddie’s waist, grinning wider than he has all week. 

*

“Did you shower before coming over here?” Eddie mumbles into Richie’s shoulder before taking a deep inhale through his nose. “You smell… fresh.” 

“Just for you, Spaghetti. Clean as a whistle, top to tail.” 

“Just for me?” He giggles, and Richie raises an eyebrow. “Should prob’ly make the most of it, then.”

Before Richie can unpack that, he’s being kissed. Eddie surges up to meet him, hands pressed against Richie’s chest, fingers splayed. Richie sinks into it, filled with a rising warmth; he’s missed the scent of him, beneath the weed smell of the sweater. He's missed the light press of his lips until he finds his rhythm, and lets himself go. There’s something in Eddie’s movements tonight, something searching, insistent, his fingers curling in Richie’s t-shirt, his tongue probing into Richie’s mouth. 

Eddie half-crawls on top of him, pushing Richie back into the mess of throw pillows at the head of his bed, and something occurs to Richie as Eddie seals their mouths together again, full of purpose. There’s a definite bulge detectable through the soft cotton of Eddie’s pyjama pants, and Richie’s own soldier is perking up rapidly as things progress. He smooths his hands down Eddie’s arms, then gently pushes him backwards. 

“What?” Eddie asks, all innocence. 

He takes one of Richie’s hands to his mouth, presses wet, soft kisses to the heel of his palm. It takes a good minute before Richie’s brain is anywhere near coherent enough to form words. 

“Uh, n-nothin’, just…” Eddie’s tongue pokes out, the tip tracing along Richie’s index finger, base to tip. Richie’s brain short circuits. His dick throbs in his pants; he imagines that if it were a puppy, it would be whining, scrabbling at the zipper, begging to be petted. A weird image. “Fuck, Eds… we’re gonna have a problem if you keep that up.”

Eddie smiles at him, sinfully coy. Outside of his own daydreams, Eddie has never worn an expression like it, Richie’s sure. “Who says it’s a problem?”

Again, a fuse blows in Richie’s brain wiring, right as Eddie leans back in to kiss him again. “You do realise I’m talking about coming in my pants because you’re making me so crazy, right?”

Eddie makes a frustrated noise, which comes out muffled because his lips are otherwise occupied. He leans back to give Richie a withering look. “Yes, doofus.” 

One of Richie’s eyebrows arches, hands coming to Eddie’s shoulders, holding him back for a moment. This does not sit well with Eddie, judging by his struggle and consequent glower. 

“And… you’re okay with that?”

“Well,” Eddie shrugs, sighing as he sits back on Richie’s thighs, “I wanna make out with you. If we gotta stop every time you get too excited, then I’d rather you just…” He flushes, sharp and quick. _A-dor-a-ble_. “Y’know.” 

Richie’s mouth twitches. He releases Eddie’s shoulders. “Eds, I know you pretty well. It doesn’t take a lot to gross you out, and I don’t wanna gross you out right now-”

“This wouldn’t gross me out,” Eddie says quickly. He pulls his eyes away, embarrassed, as Richie, strained, tugs apart what he’s said. “It’s the same when I kiss you,” he explains, still not meeting Richie’s gaze. “It’s like…” he sighs, frustrated with himself. Richie waits, enjoying this explanation thoroughly. “My grossness threshold gets overridden.”

“Oh?” Richie says, cocking his head to one side. “Overridden by what?” 

Eddie scowls at him, arms folding over his chest. This is a dangerous game, Richie realises. There’s a potentially glorious outcome on the horizon here, and he’s risking it by pissing Eddie off. He needs to switch tack, pronto. 

“You make me kinda crazy too, y’know,” Eddie mumbles, cheeks a bright, bursting strawberry colour. 

“Get over here then, nutjob,” Richie says with a wink, opening his arms. 

Eddie rolls his eyes, but leans back into him, knees shuffling forward to bracket Richie’s hips. This time, things heat up way more quickly. Eddie’s hands slide into his hair, Richie’s rest possessively on Eddie’s cute little ass, pulling him gently forward so that he can feel that tantalising bulge pressing into his hip bone. Eddie shudders as his hips push forwards, grinding their dicks against one another; even through the multiple layers of clothing, Richie feels the shockwave ripple through him as abruptly as if he were jamming a knife in the toaster. His teeth clamp around Eddie’s lip, and he shifts his hips again, holding Eddie in place as he grinds upwards. 

“Fuck,” he whispers into Eddie’s mouth, and Eddie follows it with a groan of approval, then pivots his hips forwards again, “okay, fuck, Eds- are you sure?”

“Sure of what?” Eddie mumbles, half-intelligible, then slips his tongue into Richie’s mouth. It takes a good few seconds before Richie can summon the ability to respond. 

“I’m… I’m seriously in danger of, uh, y’know,” Richie manages, then hisses as Eddie yanks around a fistful of his hair. “So if you want me to, um, not do that. We should- _fuck_. We should stop n-now.”

Eddie pulls back to meet his eyes; his pupils are black holes, swallowing up the chocolate brown until it’s just a sliver. “I want you to come,” he says, and Richie’s whole stomach performs a stunt worthy of the Cirque du Soleil. “Dumbass,” he adds for good measure, and Richie cannot help kissing him after that. 

As expected, after that it takes mere moments before Richie begins to feel a familiar heat spreading though his inner thighs and groin, spurred on by the rhythmic pulls on his hair from Eddie’s fingers, and the messy, uncoordinated drag of his lips. Richie’s not sure how far along Eddie is in comparison to him, but he’d guess it’s not far behind, because Eddie’s getting significantly less in control of his movements, and is now outright grinding down on Richie’s thigh. 

He’s got his hands clamped on the small inward curve of Eddie’s lower back, beneath his sweater because he just couldn’t help himself from finding some skin, fingertips digging into the flesh there. Eddie is kissing him fiercely, desperately, and Richie’s brain is pure mush at this point. He feels the hot breath of Eddie’s whimper ghost across his lips, and then he can’t hold back any more. A flash of pure, dazzling white swallows up his thoughts; if he weren’t currently fighting back the guttural moan of ecstasy attempting to claw up his throat for Sonia's benefit, Richie might have thought he was having some kind of stroke. Eddie pulls on his hair in order to tip his head backwards so he can slot their mouths together a bit better, without Richie’s glasses getting in the way. Richie just lets him take control, too busy absolutely wrecking his favourite underwear to do anything but surrender to Eddie’s will. 

When the pulses of bliss finally begin to ebb and fade, Richie drags Eddie off his lap and pushing him straight onto his back, in the midst of the throw pillows like the princess he is. Eddie laughs, in a bubbly, carefree sort of way that opens up his face and makes him extra kissable, so Richie hurls his glasses into the corner of the room and does just that. Eddie’s still hard, Richie can feel him, so he tentatively presses his thigh into the bulge, wary of the wet patch rapidly spreading over the crotch of his pants; will Eddie be grossed out by it? He can almost definitely feel it, but he’s not complaining so far. Contrarily, he keeps making these maddening little whiny noises, hands fisted in Richie’s hair to keep him as close as possible. Richie feels one of Eddie’s legs wrap around the back of his thigh, urging him to keep pressing against what must at this point be an achingly hard dick, and decides he needs to up his game. 

“Hey,” Richie whispers, “you want me to-”

“Unngh, shut up and make me come, idiot,” Eddie groans out, so Richie directs his responding laugh into Eddie’s neck, then begins pressing a long line of kisses there. He uses his thigh to do most of the work, building the movement of his hips into as steady of a rhythm as he can manage, given that he’s shaking all over. “Fuck, fuck, Rich- don’t stop…”

Richie would, quite honestly, rather die than stop. Eddie turns his face into his pillow to hide as he orgasms, which is hilarious for a number of reasons, but mostly because Richie is currently blind anyway without his glasses. Grinning wide as he listens to the muffled whimpers let out into the pillow, Richie reaches out and gently tilts his head back round. 

“Eds, let me reassure you that even blurred to a smudge, your O-face is the absolute sexiest thing on this planet,” Richie says, not even slightly joking. “Please never feel the need to deprive me of the sight.” 

“No,” Eddie groans, weakly, batting feeble hands at Richie’s face, “not…. sexy. Just… dumb.” 

His breathing seems to be a little out of his control. Richie kisses him tenderly, on the cheek and then the nose, then once on the mouth before surrendering to his own exhaustion and rolling off him. 

“You’re the sexiest fucker on the planet in my eyes,” Richie tells him. He can almost hear the responding eye roll. 

“Your eyes are certifiably unreliable,” Eddie remarks. 

“Speaking of - would you mind retrieving my glasses? I seem to have thrown them aside in a fit of passion.” 

“Mmm, later.” Eddie’s working himself slowly into a sitting position. “First, I _really_ need to shower.”

*

Later - much later - when Richie’s been forced to take his second shower of the night, and Eddie has done the same, they’re lying atop Eddie’s stripped bed, only a blanket covering them. Richie is wearing Eddie’s tiny little pyjama shorts - which he will be the first to admit look hilarious on his freakishly long legs - and a green, faded t-shirt he’s pretty sure Eddie stole off him some time in fourth grade. Eddie is wearing clean pants, Richie’s Hawaiian shirt, open at the lapels, and nothing else. 

“So,” Richie says, into the lull of silence that usually precedes falling asleep. “That was… a development. In our usual activities.”

Eddie snorts quietly. “You’re such a dork.” 

“Yeah, but you have now officially come in your pants for this dork.”

Eddie huffs a long-suffering sigh. “Where did I turn wrong?” 

Another pause, this one somehow even less tolerable. Richie can feel Eddie’s muscles easing of tension, can feel his breaths getting slower, more even, but he can’t stop the words from bubbling up anyway. His stomach is flipping and contracting of its own accord, terrified by what this all means, what it will change. He shuffles down, bringing his lips to Eddie’s ear. 

“Eddie?” 

“Mm.”

“You’re my favourite, you know.” Richie chews his lip, watching Eddie’s passive face for any flickers of response. “Of all the Losers.” 

“You mean you don’t let Ben or Mike grind on you in the dead of night?”

Richie laughs, and it feels like a dam bursting. The nerves rush out of him along with the giggles. “Only when your mom’s out of town.” 

One of Eddie’s eyes cracks open. “I’m not gonna say it back.”

Richie kisses him on the cheek. “That’s ok, I’m everyone’s favourite. You don’t need to say.”

Eddis sighs again, eyes falling closed, and he rolls over toward the wall, pulling Richie’s arm over his waist. This time, Richie’s almost sure he’s fallen asleep, but then he hears the parting of lips, and waits, eager, to hear what final insult he will speak into the darkness before falling into dream. 

“I always wished it could be you,” he says, very quiet. So quiet Richie has to hold his breath to hear. “Always.” 

Though he tries over the next minute and a half to decipher this cryptic comment, because he feels like he should be able to understand, Richie categorically cannot do so. Frustrated with himself, he wraps around Eddie a little tighter and asks, “Wished what could be me?” 

But he receives no answer. Eddie has fallen asleep. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late! I accidentally deleted this whole chapter and had to redo it lmao.

In the rearview mirror, Richie’s pupils are wide and gaping. There’s a sheen of damp at the crest of his forehead, just under his hairline. 

“Sexy,” he mutters, and switches off the engine’s obnoxiously loud rumble. 

He unbuckles and jerks the seat back with a few shoulder-barge movements, sticking his ankles out of the window and settling in for a long wait. The cuffs of his suit trousers ruche up around his shins, exposing knobbly, pale ankles, glossed by the orangey light of the setting sun. He wishes he had a cigarette, even checks the passenger seat glovebox in case Bev left a pack lying around, but no such luck. Instead, he switches on the radio, tuning it until a bluesy, crooning voice trickles out - a vaguely sappy love song that feels fitting. A strange cloak of peace drapes itself over Richie as he stares, unfocused, out of the window at the darkening sky. The nerves are still there of course, buzzing beneath the layer of calm, ready to seize him body and soul as soon as the evening descends. 

Time seems to creep by, only marked by the mopey, drawling songs blending into each other through Bev's staticky speakers. Richie doesn’t watch for him. It would only agitate him, to sit with his eyes trained on the corner around which Eddie will eventually walk. This seems like a solid plan, to sit more or less paralysed in the driver’s seat, until he’s waking with a start to a rapid tapping on the passenger window. Disoriented, Richie pushes away the hair that’s fallen into his eyes, and almost dismembers himself struggling to pull his legs back through the window, lean over and open the door. 

“Sorry!” he calls to Eddie’s annoyed face. 

Eddie yanks the door wide, sliding into the seat so fast that he sits, briefly, on Richie’s hand. “I haven’t even been that long,” Eddie insists, irritably, “don’t try and tell me I’m late and you fell asleep waiting for me. I made sure I started arguing with mom about going to the dance twenty minutes before I was due to meet you because I knew she would try to stop me-”

Richie pulls him in by the knot of his tie, and kisses him. It’s brief, but Eddie still jerks away fast, eyes wild as he checks around the vicinity for onlookers. Richie has been out here for a while now, and not seen a soul, so he needn’t worry. 

Even so, Eds flushes bright, exclaiming, "Jeez, cool it with that. There's still a high chance my mom's gonna come barrelling at us round that corner brandishing a fanny pack stuffed with inhalers and gazebos." 

"Guessing you chose not to tell her you're going to the dance with your uncouth-yet-oddly-charming ragamuffin of a best pal?"

The glance Eddie aims his way is twisted with a certain displeasure that Richie squints at, but can't interpret off the bat. "If I'd told her that, she'd be slashing the tires as we speak." 

"Ah, what a woman," Richie sighs dreamily. "So, who did you tell her you're going with?" 

The pause that follows is pregnant with promise of valuable teasing material. Richie has to tickle him in the ribs before he'll spit it out. "Quit it! Fine, fine. I said I was going with Bethany Farrish." 

Richie's cackle briefly drowns out the radio's warbling. "Bethany Farrish? The God-fearing President of the Abstinence Club?" 

"She goes to my mom's church," Eddie grumbles, arms folded over his chest, rumpling his tie. "She was the least threatening girl I could think of." 

"I bet old Mrs K still found a reason for you to stay away from her though, huh?" 

Eddie sighs, nodding. "She said that good Christian girls these days are all preach and no practice."

"She thinks sneaky Beth's gonna pull up her petticoats, brandish those bare knees at you when you least expect it." 

"Don't get any ideas," Eddie warns him, eyes warming as the smile creeps in. 

Richie angles the rearview mirror down to check his appearance. His impromptu nap has cooled him enough that a lot of his nervous sweat has evaporated, which is a plus. Probably, this is the best he's going to be able to look under the circumstances. "Well, we could stop at K-Mart, get me some o'those frilly white ankle socks and a cross to wear around my neck, if Bethany's style is what does it for ya."

"The crucifix would burn right through your skin," Eddie says.

"Plus, my Rabbi might make a fuss when I roll up to the Synagogue rocking it." 

Eddie shakes his head, chuckling. "I don't want you to rock anything remotely related to Bethany Farrish. You look great, just like that."

As soon as the unexpected compliment lands, Eddie's cheeks burn, and he tries to move attention away by fiddling with the radio knobs. But Richie has to lap up every scrap Eddie will share of his affection, so he pulls Eddie in and plants a smacker of a kiss on his hot cheek.

"Get _off_ ," Eddie protests, even redder when Richie releases him. He scrubs a hand over his cheek, glaring. "I'm like half sure mom is watching us from the hedge over there."

"But you've wooed me," Richie declares, laying a dramatic hand across his forehead. "Edward, this is all so romantic-"

"Shut the hell up," Eddie groans, turning the radio up louder.

A song, not dissimilar to the bluesy numbers before it, pours out. The difference being that this one's chorus is quite clearly repeating the words:

_"Eddie my lo-ove... I love you soooo...."_

Quickly, Eddie slams his palm against the knob, silencing the music altogether while Richie dies of laughter, slumped over the wheel. After a good minute has passed, Richie manages to breathe again; when he turns to his passenger, Eddie looks seconds away from storming out of the truck. Appreciatively, Richie lets his gaze track over the enormous suit jacket that hides his lean torso, the old-fashioned pants with the crease ironed in, the scarlet slash of his tie. It's an effort, as is the hair he's combed in a wave to one side. 

“You look real dapper too, Eds,” Richie tells him, not bothering to hide his goofy smile. “Not gonna lie, I wouldn't be opposed to adding the fanny pack to the ensemble, but you're making this work anyway."

Eddie hesitates, narrowed eyes searching Richie’s face for mockery. Eventually, he relaxes, reaching exasperatedly for his seatbelt. “Shut up, doofus. Are we going, or do you need another nap?” 

*

Neither of them speak once the engine cuts off. The school building looms ahead of them, imposing and almost eerie with the lack of the usual teeming youths milling around the courtyard and steps. Judging from the faint, rhythmic thump of music, all the students are already inside. Richie checks his watch for the time: they're about forty minutes late. Richie swallows. In the silence of the truck, the noise is deafening. 

“So,” Richie manages to croak out. His damp palms are creating reservoirs where they’re clamped to the steering wheel. “Ready to go in?” 

“Uh huh,” Eddie says, sounding anything but. 

Richie turns to him, assessing. His eyes are fixed straight ahead, posture rigid. He still hasn’t unbuckled his seatbelt. Richie sighs; looks like he’s going to have to be the dumb, courageous idiot here. 

“Alrighty then,” Richie declares, one sweaty hand reaching for the driver’s side handle, “into the fire.”

“Wait,” Eddie squeaks. Richie pauses, the door half open. Their eyes meet. “Maybe… maybe we don’t need to go in.” 

The frantic pulse of Richie’s heart slows, hopeful. He pulls the door closed, and something like relief passes over Eddie’s face. “You change your mind?” 

“It’s just… I was thinking about what you said. About people's… reactions." Eddie bites his lip, guilty. "I _want_ to be brave. And I want to go in as your date and not give a fuck about what everyone thinks, but…” he trails off, head turning back to look, glumly, at the blocky, stone building that has housed so many of their awful experiences. 

Richie finds his hand; it’s a testament to Eddie’s current state of anxiety that he says nothing about the sweatiness. He squeezes back, hard. Richie's not under any impression that having Eddie this way is anything other than a full-scale miracle, of a magnitude that he's unlikely to receive again in his life. He's tapped out on his granted wishes, and it's perfectly fine by him. But even so, he sends out a silent prayer to whoever is listening that one day, even thirty years in the future, society's illogical rules will allow young men like he and Eddie to stroll in to any dance hall they want to, and for no one to bat an eye. If some usually stony-faced deity could just happen to glance down and see Eddie's stricken, forlorn expression as the battle of his desire to go to a dance with his chosen date against the fear of being forever labelled as a freak rages on in his head, Richie's sure said deity would be moved. But no lightning bolts split the sky, and no prideful rainbows arc over the grey prison block ahead of them; the world does not magically mutate into a more accepting place. 

“I getcha, Spagheds,” Richie says, to make up for his own feeling of failure. He tugs Eddie round to face him, smiling wide to staunch the emotion bubbling up in his chest. “It’ll be dumb anyway. Let’s blow this sickening, outdated, performative tradition. Do our own thing.”

Eddie gives him such a sweet, genuine smile in return that Richie has to look away, lest he do something reckless and dumb, like start reciting poetry about it. He jams the key back in the ignition, and coaxes the truck back to life. The shudder of the engine vibrating beneath their shiny loafers is intoxicating. Both of them melt back against their seats, tension slowly flooding from their bodies as Richie pulls them carefully out of the parking lot. 

“D’you think the others’ll miss us?” Eddie asks, doubtful as he watches the school get smaller and smaller in his wing mirror. 

“Nah,” Richie says, winding down his window in order to rest one elbow out of it, “they’ve all got dates to look after. It’s hard work for any Loser to maintain an illusion of even moderate coolness in front of someone outside our gang.” 

“I don’t think you’re cool,” Eddie says immediately, which, hey - _unprovoked much?_

“Too hot to be cool,” Richie counters, sending him a wink. 

Eddie snorts a laugh, but doesn’t object, so Richie counts that as a win. Richie finds his hand again, helplessly, deliriously happy to have Eddie beside him, speeding in the opposite direction of what was sure to be an evening of devastating blows to both of their self-esteems. 

“Where are we going, then?” Eddie asks, the sadness receding from his expression. He now sounds pretty buoyant, too, in fact. Richie lets his eyes drift across the seat, then fall where they want to - as they always want to, on Eddie’s face. He lingers them there until Eddie snaps his fingers back at the road. “Idiot. I am not dying with you in a _car crash_ after I put all that effort into us surviving the killer clown in a sewer fiasco.”

Richie laughs, delighted by the unexpected reference; it's just another sign that Eddie truly _knows_ him, that he doesn't shove down the memory of the Pennywise shit like the others do, that he pushes his trauma aside and makes pokes fun at it, because he knows that it's the only coping mechanism Richie has ever known. He doesn't try joking about such a sick thing with any of the other Losers, Richie would bet. He just does it with Richie, to let him know he won't be beep-beep'd for it, if it's just the two of them. If it's what Richie needs to do, to cope. 

Suddenly overwhelmed with hot, cloying, syrup-sweet adoration, Richie shoves his head out of the window to let out a whoop, then listens to the breeze carry it into the horizon they've left in the rearview mirror. When he ducks back in, grinning, Eddie is wearing a look of barely concealed unease.

Richie ignores it, too happy to care. “I have an idea,” he says. 

*

The idea had seemed like a super brilliant one, about ten minutes ago, high on the adrenaline of throwing caution to the wind, escaping their troubles by going sixty down a deserted street hand in hand. Now, idling beside the place where a scrap of soul is exposed to the air, like a raw nerve, the idea has deflated, and is lying shrivelled on the seat between them, mottled and grey. 

“Uh…” Eddie says after a good three minutes of silence. “Not to interrupt your weird, wordless freak out, but… what the hell are we doing here?” 

Richie takes a deep breath in, then lets it out with a shaky laugh. “Y'know, all my life I was so sure I had a human spine keepin’ me upright. Turns out it’s just a flimsy pool noodle slotted back there.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Oh, fuck,” Richie sighs, head thunking against the headrest. Bev better make good on those pot brownies she promised. “Okay, here goes. I gotta tell you something.”

Immediately, Eddie’s body language changes. He angles himself towards Richie, shoulders squared, leg jiggling. “What? Is this about last night? Did you hate it? We can go back to just making out if you want-” 

Gently, Richie covers Eddie’s mouth with his hand. “Gonna stop you right there, gorgeous. You could not be further off the mark with that theory. Last night was hands down the best night of my life.” Against his palm, Richie can feel Eddie’s lips stretch into a smile. Heart already well on its way to becoming a pile of goo, Richie softens, says: “Which brings me to my next point…” 

He takes his hand from Eddie’s mouth, using the moment where he wipes his lips with the back of his hand to just look at him. All eighteen years of him, condensed into a small, impossibly strong, brave, radiant body. He’s better, right here, in his dad's old suit, worry lines creasing his forehead, than he ever was, polished and inconceivable, in Richie’s dreams. 

“When we, uh, fool around,” Richie says, voice crackling at the base of his throat. He clears it, pushes his glasses up his nose. “It’s not just… fooling around. Not for me.” 

Eddie frowns, deepening the worry lines. “Okay…”

“Yeah, um. I’ve kinda wanted to… fool around with you… for a long time. A really long time.” 

“How long?” Eddie asks; Richie could have predicted he would ask. Even so, his eyes flutter closed, anguished, because the answer is so painfully embarrassing. “Since before that night at Ben’s?”

A strained tumble of laughter escapes Richie’s mouth. He leans back in his seat, badly wishing he could fast forward through this conversation; maybe there's even the chance of scoring some pity kisses once his mortifying feelings have been laid bare on the dashboard. 

“Yeah, Eds. Since before that night at Ben’s. Since a few _years_ before Ben’s.” 

“A few _years_?” Eddie repeats, as if he's checking he hasn't misheard. When Richie only waits, patiently, for the news to sink in, Eddie blurts: “You’re telling me you’ve been wanting to kiss me since we were…” he pauses, counting on his adorable fingers. Richie’s heart squeezes, watching him. “Fifteen?”

With a sigh of resignation, Richie plunges the melon baller deeper into his abdomen, and hauls out a few more globs of his lame, disgustingly smitten guts. He leans over and pulls up a good few more of Eddie’s fingers. “Try this.”

Eddie stares down at his hands, astounded. “Since we were _eleven_? Since…” his voice drops to a whisper. “... _It_?” 

“That happy summer is the first time I remember thinking about… y’know. Smooching you and whatnot.” Richie can feel a blush rising in his cheeks. It doesn’t happen often, and he’s glad; he hates any physical manifestations of his true feelings. He'd prefer that nobody could ever read him, which is why he puts so much effort into making a tit of himself, to distract from what's happening beneath the surface. _Traitorous, independently-acting body._ “But truthfully... it could’ve been since I met you. Obviously I didn’t know what it was when we were little, making me wanna be near you all the time. Making me wanna pester the living shit out of you. But as we grew up it became. Um. Pretty clear.”

“Rich…” Eddie says, his head shaking slowly. It’s agonising to watch as the horrified responses form in Eddie’s mind. “I-”

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter, I know you don’t… feel the same as I do. I’m just tellin’ you ‘cause Bev promised me pot brownies and-”

“Rich,” Eddie interrupts again. His voice isn’t loud, or demanding, but Richie shuts up anyway. He stares out of the window at the kissing bridge up ahead, wishing one of his brain’s other half-baked, equally stupid ideas had won out instead of this one when Eddie had asked for their destination. “Rich, it’s cute and all. Bringing me to the kissing bridge, and telling me you’ve crushed on me since we were little, but… you don’t have to do this. I gave up being mad at you after you asked me to the dance. We’re square.”

Richie turns, fixing Eddie with a bewildered expression. “Hold up. You don’t _believe_ me?” 

“No,” Eddie confirms, laughing. “We all had a lot of other shit to deal with that summer, if I recall. I really doubt you had the time to be perving on me in my fanny pack and polo shirt.”

“You clearly do not pay attention to the multi-tasking capabilities of my hyperactive brain,” Richie says, astonished that he’s even needing to convince him of this when it seems, to him, so utterly indisputable. “I have had one eye firmly on your fanny pack since I can remember, Eds.”

Eddie laughs again, incredibly, rolling his eyes. “You don’t need to say any of this, Rich. If you wanna 'fool around' with me some more, I appreciate that you went to the trouble of taking me to this well-known make out spot, and even came up with a cute speech, but it's probably better if we go somewhere we're less likely to be discovered by our drunk peers when they decide the dance is boring and wanna go give in to their teenage hormones. ” 

“Eds…” Richie lets go of whatever he’d been about to say, exasperated. He looks out of the windscreen, mind careering around in a circle as he thinks through how to make this stick. “Shit. Okay. I’ll prove it! Get out of the car.”

“What? No, c’mon, let’s go somewhere fun! You can give me a hickey if you do it somewhere my mom won't see-”

Tucking that offer into the back of his mind for later, Richie leaps out of the driver’s side, sprinting around the bonnet to wrench open Eddie’s door and tug him out. Complaining all the while, Eddie reluctantly lets himself be led out of the truck and over to the side of the bridge. When Richie arrives at the right spot, toes pointed at the wood of the fence, Eddie yanks his arm free. 

“What the hell, Rich?” 

“Just… look.” 

Richie gestures, vaguely, towards the area he wants Eddie to study in closer detail, then quickly turns around and marches to the other side of the bridge, too much of a chicken to remain beside Eddie whilst the realisation dawns. His heart hammers against his ribs as he waits, his stomach lurches left and right; hands squarely planted on the opposite fence to the one Eddie is staring at, Richie tries to clear his mind of its paralysing, tormented thoughts and focus on one thing - the babble of the river water as it rushes over the pebbles below their feet works fairly well. It's loud and penetrating, Richie leans over the side of the bridge a little further, to turn up the volume.

Eventually, after a good five minutes have gone by, Richie hears the tramp of slow, trepidatious footsteps approaching. His shoulders hunch towards his burning ears. His fingers dig into the wooden fence he’s leaning against. When he swallows, it's around a dry, rough throat. He tries to brace himself for the words that will surely come, but knows he’d never be prepared for their impact even if he knew what they were. Gently, Eddie lays a hand on his shoulder, pulls him round so they’re face to face. Well, Eddie’s tiny, so more like face to chest, but still. 

“When did you carve that in there?” he asks. 

“Summer of ‘89, lover,” Richie replies, mouth stretching into an unnatural grin that he can’t hope to sustain. “Could prob’ly do with freshenin’ up, huh? Got a penknife handy?” 

Eddie reaches his arms up, locking them around Richie’s neck, and pulls him down until he’s close enough to kiss. As their faces get nearer, Richie can make out a wobble of moisture lining Eddie’s lower eyelids. “Fuck you for not telling me," he murmurs. "You asshole.”

“Wanted to wait and jump you one sleepover outta the blue,” Richie jokes, awkwardly. "See how bad I could freak you out."

“You have somethin’ you wanna tell me, Richie?”

“I’m not a natural brunette?” 

Eddie smacks him in the back of the head. “Try again.” 

“Uh, I’m pretty in love with you,” Richie says, and then his heart promptly attempts to eject itself from his chest. “Sorry.” 

“Oh my _God_ ,” Eddie says, then kisses him so hard it feels like it bruises. He pulls back, eyes round and stuck open. “You’re so bad at this,” Eddie informs him, suddenly furious. This is extra confusing, because in the next moment, he’s smashing their lips together again. Dazed, Richie just lets him do it, lets him work through his emotions using his lips as a punching bag. “You’re telling me you love me and saying _sorry_ about it? What, do you want me to forgive you? Give you six hail mary's and tell you to get on your knees?” 

"Uh... I could work with one o'those instructions, maybe. But I'm Jewish so we don't really do the hail mary-ing-" 

Eddie takes a swift step back, drawing in a breath. Richie has to keep himself steady on the fence at his back; everything is so precarious right now, he feels as though he might just as likely swan dive off the bridge into the river as ever get to kiss Eddie again. What is the expression he's wearing? It's wide and astonished and brimming with emotion that Richie doesn't understand. He wants to reach out, but is pretty sure he would topple right over if he let go of the bridge. 

“Richie,” Eddie says, seriously, his frown lines as cavernous as Richie has ever seen them. “Listen to me carefully. You are a huge pain in my ass, and _I love you too_. I never want to hear you say sorry for feeling anything for me, because hearing that you want this just as bad as I do is everything I have ever fucking wanted." Richie blinks, the words dancing around, impossible and confusing, on the bridge between them. Eddie takes an enormous breath in, his white shirt taut over his ballooning chest, then lets it out slow. "Now," he says, "we are going to get back in the truck, and you are going to drive us somewhere I can make out with your face.” Eddie turns on his heel then, gravel crunching beneath the smooth underside of his loafer, and stalks back towards the truck. Richie can only watch him, stunned, as he pulls open the door and fixes Richie with a final, hard glare. “Somewhere within a ten minute range of here, because I am _not_ waiting longer than that.” 


	10. Chapter 10

Richie’s bright idea for a follow-up location that meets Eddie’s specifications is the clubhouse. If Eddie finds this choice to be lacking in creativity, he doesn’t voice the thought. Instead, he merrily launches himself into the hammock that has so long been the raft on a sea of Richie’s longing - the one place he could press his bare skin against Eddie’s for long, blissful periods of time without fear of ridicule or gay comments. Now though, Richie hesitates, one hand still on a rung of the ladder he just climbed down, unsure of protocol. In years past, he and Eddie would fight to get down the ladder first, then race each other to the hammock and dive into it, a tangle of bodies struggling for the best position. Now, Eddie lies in it alone, hands behind his head, one eyebrow arched as he stares at Richie, expectantly. 

_What is it, though, that he is expecting?_

“Need an invitation all of a sudden?” Eddie asks, then pats the non-existent space beside him. It always looks as though there’s no possible way two pubescent boys could cram in there together, but Richie knows from his countless past experiences, that this is a trick of the eye. It takes some wiggling around, and usually some bruising, but he and Eddie can slot side by side, top to tail, or any number of other ways into that hammock, even now. When he voices none of this aloud, Eddie sits up a bit, frowning. “What’s the matter?” 

“You want a drink?” 

Richie croaks it out, then beelines for the secret stash only he and Bev know about, stuffed into a music box all of them are unanimously against opening, because the creepy twirling clown that dances when the lid is lifted is… reminiscent of something else. His need for dutch courage overwhelming his cowardice, Richie opens it, hand darting inside to retrieve the forty of spiced rum he knows is in there, and slams it closed before three notes of the chilling circus music have filtered out. He stands, already unscrewing the lid as he walks back to the hammock. 

“Here,” he offers, expecting Eddie to refuse. But Eddie’s doe eyes fall to the bottle, considering. And then he takes it. His sip is followed, of course, by a prompt retch of disgust, but he hands it back without complaining aloud. 

Richie takes a long pull, then puffs his chest, preparing for battle. “Shift over then, hot stuff.” 

Eddie does so, obediently, but his eyes are trained tightly on Richie's face, wary. “You’re being weird,” Eddie declares as Richie carefully folds himself into the hammock at his side. “You’ve been weird since the bridge.”

“Um, yeah,” Richie agrees, “you told me you love me. Kinda threw me for six.” 

“You told me first!”

“Which should have freaked you the fuck out,” Richie squeaks. “I was fully prepared for you to throw up over the side, or tell me I'm at risk of getting AIDS unless I stop having gay thoughts. Was not expecting a ‘ditto’, I’ll be honest.” 

“Well, too bad.” Eddie wriggles closer, burrowing beneath Richie’s arm. “You don’t get to be the only repressed, pining, lovesick member of the Losers club. Apart from Ben." He pauses, frowning. "Or Bill. Now stop being dumb and kiss me.”

Defeated by this irrefutable logic, Richie does as he’s told. 

About an hour later, they are both pleasantly tipsy from their infrequent sips of rum between kissing sessions. Eddie’s cheeks have a rosy glow from the increase in his blood alcohol level, coupled with the heat that their tightly pressed bodies are generating. It’s getting slowly to a point where Richie is going to have to suggest they either take a break or officially Christen Ben’s hammock, but he’s enjoying this moment too much to bring it up just yet. His heart is throbbing, bulging at the seams with goopy, disgustingly thick affection, and his mind is reeling, but not from the rum. 

Eddie had said that he _loves_ him. Out of all the responses Richie expected when he decided, spur of the moment, to confess his own out of control devotion, he had not even allowed himself to indulge the thought of that one. Richie’s never been the best at keeping secrets, which is why it’s so baffling to him that nobody apart from Bev picked up on the reason for his hyper keen interest in anything Eddie-related. But Eddie has, as far as Richie can recall, never shown even the slightest hint that he might feel the same way. 

_Aside from being all too happy to make out with you at every opportunity_ , Richie’s brain helpfully replies. 

“Huh,” Richie says to himself, his world veering suddenly to the right as the realisation dawns. In the next second, he understands that the hammock is tipping, because Eddie is rolling over to flop over on top of him; reflexes a little slow from the drink, Richie throws out a hand to the floor to stop them both falling out, just in time. “Jeez, Eds, I know you’re tiny but watch it. If we split our heads open and die on the night of our mutual love confessions, my ghost will cold shoulder yours for at least a couple millennia.” 

“Drunken hammock death would be pretty embarrassing,” Eddie agrees, and settles himself into stillness across the length of Richie’s body. Chin on Richie’s chest, he looks up, smiling dopily. “I can see up your nose from here.” 

“I understand if you don’t love me anymore,” Richie says, and when Eddie laughs, is vibrates through Richie’s ribcage. He strokes a hand over Eddie’s silky-soft hair. 

“So, now that we’re all…” Eddie makes a vague, flappy hand gesture in the air. “In love or whatever… Are we allowed to have sex?" Richie’s hand freezes in its path. Eddie blunders on, oblivious. "I know we kind of did some stuff last night, but I've kind of been going nuts thinking about it.” 

Richie stares at him like he's grown a third ear. "...It?"

"I wanna do things," Eddie says, shrugging like it's no big deal. "A lot of things." He pauses. "With you." 

"What... kind of things?" Richie manages to ask.

Eddie's answering smile is coy. "Could show you, if you want."

“...gimme a sec. Just having a brief heart attack.” 

“Doesn’t bode well for your chances of making it through the actual event,” Eddie replies, drily. He follows it up with a poke in Richie’s shoulder, seeking an answer. “Well? You wanna?”

Richie makes a sort of spluttering noise, which Eddie wrinkles his nose at. “I’m sorry, have you not been paying attention to my complete lack of control over my libido whenever you get within a foot of me?” 

“Is that a yes?” Eddie asks, impatient. 

Right to the point then, Richie supposes. “That’s a hell yes, Princess. Say the word, and this-” he shimmies his body, head to toe, in what he is certain is an extremely alluring display, “is all yours.” 

Eddie’s smile is slow and syrupy. “Word,” Eddie says, then leans up to kiss him. Richie’s _juuuust_ about getting his head round the fact that Eddie is currently on top of him, horny, and asking to be ravished, when an unfortunate sound breaks them apart. The unmistakable voices of their friends draw nearer to the open entrance in the ceiling, and in Eddie’s haste to scramble off him, the hammock careers violently, tipping Richie inelegantly to the floor. He doesn’t crack his skull open, thankfully, but it does hurt. “Fuck,” Eddie hisses, brown eyes peeping over the edge, “sorry!” 

Richie has no time for an outraged response, because right then Ben jumps into the bunker, ladder apparently unnecessary for someone with thighs as thick and strong as his. He grins at the two of them, knowingly; Richie can just sense Eddie’s flush, though he’s a little too sprawled on the floor to be sure. 

“Knew they’d be in here!” he cries, then reaches a hand out to help Bev as she daintily steps down the ladder in her kitten heels. “

After her, Mike swings in, using the edge of the opening like a monkey bar before landing neatly in front of them, dusting off his hands. “You guys ditched the dance to hide out here? Are you nuts?” 

“They’re getting too cool for us,” Bill calls, choosing to let Audra go first down the ladder whilst holding her hand. 

“Are we still talking about these Losers?” Bev asks, nodding towards Richie and Eddie as she untucks the hem of her dress from her stocking. When Richie sends her a questioning look, she shrugs. “You try picking across the forest floor in a floor-length dress before judging me, Tozier.” 

“Do we get a prize if we managed to do it without exposing our legs?” Audra asks, floating by in her own gown, hemmed in mud to prove her point. 

Bev flicks her eyes heavenward, but doesn’t rise to the bait. Always thrilled by the sight of her, Richie struggles into a sitting position, hoping he’s only mildly concussed, and brandishes the forty her way. 

“Who wants to crank this achingly predictable after-school special up a notch?” 

“Is that my mom’s bourbon?” Ben asks, just as Stan misses the last rung of the ladder, falling on his ass. 

“Ow, fuck, gimme that Rich,” he grunts, rubbing his bruised behind, “I need numbing, ASAP.” 

The next couple of hours spin by in a gleeful, hyperactive whirr; Richie is only brought back to the reality of this mad, incredible night when Eddie’s hand sneaks out to touch him at random intervals, often causing a complete brain malfunction, and cutting off his jokes mid-delivery. 

“Think Richie’s drunker than all of us,” Bill says the third time this happens, and Richie would love to tell him that he’s barely had any rum at all, and that it’s the feeling of Eddie’s hand on his inner thigh beneath the blanket Ben motheringly draped over them in the hammock. But he can’t, and that’s perfectly fine - he doesn’t need to tell anyone that his world earlier exploded into brilliant, shimmering rainbows, like he’s living in the last chapter of some Austen novel. “I’m cutting you off for a while, Rich.” 

Richie only gives him a shaky salute, and hopes his whimper, born from the proximity of Eddie’s fingers to his dick, is not audible. Shockingly, it’s Stan that suggests they play a drinking game. Having spent the majority of their childhood being the literal Losers of the school (minus Audra), none of them know a drinking game other than Truth or Dare, which Ben steadfastly refuses to play after the syrup incident at the diner, which, he confesses, would have made his heart give out had the weed not slowed its beat considerably. So, they make up their own game, based on how well the seven-plus-Audra of them all know one another. Surprisingly, it doesn’t absolutely suck. 

“Who fucked up their dance date worse,” Richie asks to the circle, “Stanley or Michael?” 

“Who’s Michael?” Stan asks, hiccuping briefly. 

“Me, you lightweight,” Mike says, snagging the bottle from Stan’s loose grip. “And fuck you very much, Richie. Barbara was perfectly content until-”

“Nuh uh uh!” Eddie interrupts, rosy and gleeful. “No clues. Everyone point at your chosen person in three, two, one… now!”

Bev, Bill, Ben, Richie, and Mike all point at Stan. Audra and Eddie point at Mike, who flips them off casually. “Aw, Stan,” Bev coos, in possession of the bottle now, “no hard feelings bud. But the fact you’re drowning your sorrows is a pretty good indicator that things didn’t go great with… what was her name?” 

“Tanya,” he says morosely. Bev hands him the bottle, all sympathy. “How many fingers do I drink again?”

“Two,” Richie informs him. “One if you tell us what happened.”

Stanley drinks two fingers, grim faced. Helpfully, Mike jumps in to explain for him. “In retrospect, mine and Stan’s lovely dates were probably not so keen on spending the whole night sat on the bleachers with these losers,” he gestures to Bill, Audra, Ben and Bev, “instead of tearing up the dancefloor.” 

“Plus I spilled punch on Tanya’s velvet pumps,” Stan adds, wincing at the memory. “I blame Eddie and Rich. Them being gone threw us all out of whack.”

“Yeah, not cool guys,” Bev tacks on with a fake sternness. “What could you have been doing that was so much more fun than attending the dance with your best buds?”

“ _I_ think we’re all overlooking the fact that dear, sweet Audra over here has not had a proper introduction to the gang,” Richie says loudly - his best tactic, whenever cornered, is to be extra, obnoxiously loud. “Pray tell, Sweetheart of Bill-ze-bub, why have you allowed this hooligan to drag you down to our level?” 

There’s a discordant clamouring after that, of people protesting the idea that Audra has been dragged from her much more respectable status as Reasonably Popular Girl, as well as others - Eddie, Ben, a slurred Stan - giving their opinions on the attributes Bill possesses that would make any girl mad for him. Subtle as he can in the midst of the cacophany, Richie catches Beverly’s eye and strikes up a wordless conversation with her that goes something like: 

_you good?_

_yeah, you?_

_im great and i need to talk to you, like, _ _now_ _._

_fancy a smoke?_

_god bless you, woman._

Richie tries to let Bev go first up the ladder, but she whacks him in the back of the head. “I’m not having you looking up my skirt, perv.” 

“Ow! Jesus, unless you’re hiding a dick and a fanny pack under those ruffles I’m not interested, trust me,” Richie replies, too quiet to be heard under the ruckus the others are making, but it still makes his heart thump wildly to say it aloud. Bev just rolls her eyes, ushering him out of the door with gestures of impatience. Once out in the crisp night air, they wordlessly tramp across the woodland floor to sit on a fallen tree trunk while Bev digs in her cute little purse - light green to match her dress - and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “Ew,” Richie says, “menthols?” 

“My dealer threw these in with the edibles,” Bev says, handing one to him. “I left them for as long as I could, but I’m broke and I ran out of straights. So suck it up, Tozier.”

Richie does, in fact, suck it up once the end is lit. “Huh,” he says, releasing a wash of minty smoke. “These are actually okay. Kinda smooth.”

“They suck,” Bev corrects him. “Don’t pansy to me ‘cause I did you a favour.” 

“Bev, my sweet, shining star,” Richie says wistfully; he can feel the gleam sparkling in his eyes as he gazes at her. Judging by the wary expression she wears, it's thoroughly weirding her out. “You did more than just a simple favour, loaning me your truck for the night.” 

“It wasn’t even a big deal, Rich. I wasn’t using it. Ben hired us a whole ass limousine. So fucking lame obviously, but also the most adorable thing in the world.”

“Yes, but the use of that truck allowed me to win the affections of my childhood crush,” Richie declares, one hand over his heart. “So, I owe you forever.”

“Didn’t you already win his affections when you pounced on the poor fucker’s sleeping bag on Ben's floor?” 

“That was merely the beginning. Tonight, my dear Miss Marsh, we exchanged confessions of love.” He waits, savouring the moment as the words sink in, her eyes widening bit by bit. 

“You… you _did it_?”

“Trust me, I would not have bet on my horse to win our little race either.”

“Holy shit.” She has gone so still, watching him, that her cigarette has died out. “So, what, you’re like… boyfriend and... boyfriend?”

Richie snickers, feeling his neck grow hot. “Uh, I dunno about that. Kind of a silent agreement to keep it hush hush for now.”

Bev raises an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me, the way he was pawing all over you Saturday night.” 

Richie waves a hand through the air, drawing a line of smoke through the dark. “He’s handsier than a rent boy on E when he’s stoned. Sober-Eddie is a far more demure little beast.” 

“I can’t believe you fucking did it, you asshole,” Bev says, bringing her lighter to the tip of her cigarette again, head shaking. “This competition was supposed to be a funny way for us to meet up and compare our miserable, ineffective romantic pursuits.” 

“And now you owe me pot brownies,” Richie sighs happily.

She groans. “And I don’t get your sweater. _And_ I’m now the only Loser who can’t cough up how she really feels.”

“Just as well about the sweater. I think Eddie's grown fond of sleeping in it.”

Bev fakes a retch, but shoots him a fond smile. They fall into a brief silence, finishing off their smokes. Then, Bev makes a despondent sort of noise. Still freewheeling in the stratosphere of Eddie-related elation, Richie turns to her, surprised. 

“I’m gonna lose him,” she whispers, flicking the butt into the bracken. “I just know it. He’ll grow tired of waiting for me to say it, and I’ll never be able to do it before…” she trails off, biting her lip. Richie shrugs out of his suit jacket at once; performative chivalry is a stellar method of comfort, in his experience. He wraps it around her shoulders, and she glares at him with wet, brimming eyes, but pulls it tight. “You’re turning into a right sap.” 

“Eddie's fault. He's mushifying me." He pauses, looking her over, concerned. "You’ll say it to him one day, if that’s what you feel,” Richie assures her. “There’s no rush, Marsh. We’re only eighteen. I just got excited and blurted it out to Eddie ‘cause it was literally about to burst out of my chest if I kept it in longer. You’d have had to pull a Ripley and escape with a cat in a spaceship to keep from being mauled by my horrifying emotion.” 

“Ripley’s awesome,” Bev says firmly. 

“You’d make a badass Ripley.” 

She sighs, turning away to wipe her eyes with the heel of her hand. “I do. Feel that for him. I just… every time I think about saying it I think of my dad saying it to me. He’d always say it when he was sorry for- for hurting me. Crying and shit. It was like a tactic. A way to get me to forgive him. Fuck. You want another smoke?” 

She scrabbles for the clasp of her purse, but Richie catches her cold, small hand in his. He brings it to his lips, kisses it gently. “Ben knows you better than anyone,” Richie says softly. “I think you should tell him what you just told me. He’ll understand. Fuck, he’d understand so hard it would probably hurt to watch.” 

She stops trying to go for the cigs, gazing at Richie, lip trembling. “You think?”

“Yeah,” Richie replies at once, then beams a smile at her. “You know he would. He adores you.” 

She laughs. “Fuck knows why.”

“I know why.” Richie leans in and kisses her cheek. She breathes out against him, eyes closing. “If I were into chicks I’d have locked this down long ago, embers.”

She hits him in the shoulder, laughing, and then the moment is over, and they’re both leaning away, wiping damp patches from their faces. Richie notices, faintly, that he’s shivering. “Shall we return to our much better halves?” 

Bev takes a deep breath in, then nods, standing up. Richie turns her, brushing the log-dirt from her dress skirt until she kicks him. “Quit feeling my ass.” 

“I’m high on love and so horny a stiff breeze could show me a good time,” Richie complains as they walk back to the open door of the clubhouse, “gimme a break, would’ja?” 

*

It becomes clear, not long after Richie re-posits himself in his place in the circle, that Eddie is keen to leave. He’s not sure of the time, but reckons it’s about ten o’clock, so when Eddie whispers into his ear, begging Richie to make the excuse so that he doesn’t have to, it’s not ridiculously difficult to persuade the others that their time is up.

“Sorry, folks,” Richie says, loudly, over the chorus of tipsy protests, “Edward is on a strict curfew, and as his chaperone I have a duty to tuck him in tight before his jailer patrols the block.”

He stands, hauling Eddie up onto his unsteady feet by one wrist. Eddie waves shyly at everyone, his cheeks rosy and aglow, too antsy to muster a proper goodbye. 

“His chaperone?” Bill calls with a playful smile. “More like his date, you mean.”

Everyone laughs, good-naturedly, at the joke. The tightening of Richie’s stomach muscles is involuntary, but he manages to relax them in the next moment. Bill is only teasing them, he reminds his nerves. Eddie looks suddenly like a frightened bunny though, so Richie gently releases his wrist, and gives Bill the standard two fingers, to prove the taunt has glided right off them, like any other. 

“Alright, alright, say your goodbyes to this li’l lush,” Richie says, grabbing Eddie’s shoulders and angling him towards everyone for a final round of called farewells before steering him to the ladder. 

“Yo, am I ever getting my truck back, dipshit?” Bev asks, loudly. 

"I still need it to escort this one back to his chambers," Richie replies. "He'll never make it on foot, look at him." 

Eddie elbows him in the ribs, but doesn't object to the idea of being driven back. 

“That, and Rich has gotta have a place to feel him up at the end of the night,” Mike chimes in. "Don't put out for this moron, Eddie. You can do way better."

"Yeah, if he invites you into the bed of the truck, say you're not that kind of girl," Bill agrees, laughing gaily. Mike and Bill exchange a high five, enjoying themselves. 

This time, it’s Eddie who amiably gestures a ‘fuck off’ at them all before saying, quite unexpectedly, “He should be so lucky.” 

Before he can incriminate them even further, Richie ushers him up the ladder, calling vaguely over his shoulder to Bev that he’ll drop the keys round to Ben’s house in the morning. Once they’re safely out of sight of any prying eyes, Eddie grabs for his hand. It’s probably more to keep him steady as he stumbles, a little inebriated it would seem, over the forest floor. Richie’s laughing at him, tugging him this way and that to make things harder and catching him when he trips. Richie hauls him up a third time, and kisses the grimace off his scrunched up little face. And then, suddenly, there’s a hand on his shoulder. A different hand, bigger and firmer than Eddie's. Richie’s heart freezes over. He rips himself away from Eddie’s lips, sending the latter stumbling backwards a few paces in surprise. 

Richie turns, feeling the ice crackling through him, down his arms and up his neck; his stomach flips and clenches. Bill is behind him, a curious wonder in his deep, expressive eyes. “You forgot your jacket,” he says, holding it out. Richie had forgotten that he had left it draped around Bev’s shoulders. He looks down at it blankly, barely registering it above the racket his heart is making; behind him, Eddie’s breaths are unmistakably laboured. “Tried to call you back but I don’t think you heard me.” 

Bill's gaze has flicked over Richie’s shoulder to where Eddie is, blinking wide and questioning. Richie can’t even make himself move to take the jacket. He swallows, and feels like the sound could be heard miles away. 

“Bill…” Richie hears Eddie whisper, but whatever he’d been wanting to say doesn't quite make it out. 

Oozing a terrible sympathy, Bill folds the jacket over Richie’s arm, giving him one of those lovely, warm smiles. “Nice night for a walk back through the woods,” Bill says, then reaches up and gives Richie’s upper arm a squeeze. “Quite romantic. With the moon and everything.” 

It’s a gentle, kind hint, that he doesn’t mind. That he thinks it’s okay, that he accepts it. But Richie still can’t make himself move, can’t return that sincere, older-brother smile. He wonders how Eddie is faring, behind him. He can’t hear that panicked breathing any more, which is good. He hears footsteps crunching the earth, and then Eddie is next to him, chin raised, looking Bill straight in the eye. It reminds Richie of a different, much darker, but equally scary time, when Eddie had stunned the lot of them, by squaring up to his fears, exuding a bravery none of them could match. 

It’s a hell of a lot more impressive to be courageous when everything scares you.

Eddie takes hold of Richie's hand again. “Thanks for bringing that back, Bill,” he says; his voice wavers, but he gets it all out. “Richie would forget his own foot if it weren’t attached to his stilt-leg.” 

Bill laughs, gladly, and nods in agreement. “Lucky he’s got us to pick up after him.”

“He’d be lost without us,” Eddie says solemnly, and looks up into Richie’s face. His eyes are kind, reassuring, and Richie falls for them all over again. Eddie turns back to Bill. “See you at school?” 

“Yeah, get home safe,” Bill says, offering the two of them one last smile. 

His gaze falls, briefly, to their joined hands, but it pulls away again just as fast. He turns, waving, and jogs back towards the clubhouse. 

*

“I wish you could come inside with me,” Eddie says into Richie’s mouth; his sigh tastes sweet, like spiced rum and breath mints. “If my mom wasn't such a psycho we could just be normal teenagers and sneak up to my room and-”

“Stop right there or I will come in my pants all over again,” Richie says quickly. 

Eddie is in his lap in the driver’s seat, his left knee digging into the handbrake, his bum brushing against the wheel. Richie has parked them around the corner from Eddie’s house again, a bit more tucked away this time, under the shadow of a low-hanging tree, out of the street light glare. If any neighbours were to peer out of their curtains, they’d likely only see two formless shapes grinding on one another, and seeing as it’s the night of the dance, this is probably to be expected. 

Eddie’s laugh is warm against his cheek. The sneaky fucker reaches a hand between their bodies before Richie can stop him, brushing over the tent in Richie's dress pants. “I’m starting to think it wouldn’t matter if I morphed into Pennywise right here on top of you,” Eddie says in that low, back-of-the-throat voice that melts and stretches Richie’s innards like they're warm mozzarella. “You’d probably still be ready to bust.” 

“Uh huh,” Richie chokes out, lip caught between Eddie’s teeth. “Honestly, for all I know you've already transformed into a freaky clown alien. My glasses are fogged up so I’d have no idea. Just, if you are ol’ Pennywise, could you just keep your hand there a liiiittle longer before you- oh, _fuck_. Before you eat me alive or whatever-”

“Shhh,” Eddie whispers, massaging his tiny, devious hand over the bulge. His fingers trace the outline of Richie's dick, finding its shape beneath the cloth. “Unngh, Richie,” he says, ducking his chin to look down at what he’s doing. “Can I…”

He’s fumbling with the fly of Richie’s pants now, leaning back to let the light from the window splash onto them so he can see. Now that he’s not breathing all up in Richie’s face, the mist over his lenses begins to recede, and he sees the questioning, desperate expression Eddie wears. Richie just nods at him, too stunned to form a proper response. 

“Want me to move the seat back?” 

“I _want_ to take you home and do this properly,” Eddie growls, ripping the zipper down, “but I have ten minutes until my mom calls a search party for me, so this will have to do.” 

“Aye aye, cap’n,” Richie says, for some unfathomable reason. 

Eddie snorts. “You’re so freakin’ weird.” 

And then he slips his hand into Richie’s pants, and Richie forgets everything except the pressure of Eddie’s fingers, the weight of his dense, tight body piled on top of him, and the intense, unyielding bliss of this feeling. It's over in an embarrassingly short time, because Eddie's fingers are magic, and Richie's so turned on by every inch of him that it's rendering him a dumbstruck fool. Eddie drags his lips over Richie's jaw, mapping the skin there, and drags the orgasm from Richie with a few deep, precise strokes, his hips rocking in time. When he begins falling back down from his high, Richie’s mouth has sealed itself against the base of Eddie’s throat, sucking around a chunk of skin there. He can hear Eddie gasping, can feel him weakly batting him in the shoulder, whispering, “ _fuck, fuck, stop, you’ll leave a mark, she’ll see_ ,” but it doesn’t sound like he means it at all. When Richie leans away, his lips are damp, so he wipes them with his sleeve, making Eddie pull a face.

“You’re so awesome,” Richie informs him, awed. “Let’s steal this truck and run away together. We can sleep in the back there under the stars. I'll drive us from city to city and we'll get shitty temp jobs to earn food money, then roll on to our next adventure. We'll make a new life for ourselves, just you and I.”

Eddie smiles at him, exasperated but fond. A hand cups Richie’s cheek. “You’re such a sap after you’ve come,” he says, rather rudely ignoring Richie’s stellar proposal. “Get your hands off my ass, I’ve gotta split.” 

“Nooo,” Richie moans, tightening the hands on his ass, holding him in place. “I’m nowhere near done with you yet.” 

“You’ve given me a hickey the size of Monte Carlo, you asshat. You’re done with me.” 

“But- but you need to be taken care of,” Richie coos, kissing him gently, enticingly, so he leans in for more. “Princess,” he adds, to be a little shit. 

Eddie groans, rocking his hips forwards into Richie’s sensitive, softening cock. “I hate you. Fuck. Don’t make me l-late… oh, fuck. Okay…” 

Richie has leant him back against the steering wheel, and is now methodically untucking his shirt from his waistband. He makes short work of the button and fly on Eddie's pants obstructing his way, and slides his hand into the front of them, able to feel, for the first time, the smooth stretch of elastic material over his dick. It’s damp from where Eddie has been rubbing against the fabric, and that in itself is hot enough that Richie wants to rip the pants right off to press his tongue there and taste it. 

Instead, because of the time constraints, and the cramped space, he settles for just stroking, palming over the feel of him; Eddie’s dick twitches, his hips canting up to meet Richie’s movements. With his other hand, Richie pulls open a few extra buttons on his shirt, exposing a healthy patch of creamy skin, which he then leans forward to kiss. 

Eddie’s hand winds into his hair. “H-hurry it up, champ,” Eddie stammers out, fingers tightening. “Damn, that feels so good- keep doing that, yeah. Fuck.”

Delighted that his clumsy, near-blind movements seem to be working so well, Richie doubles his efforts enthusiastically, feeling his own cock beginning to once again swell in interest. _Not now_ , he tells it, impatiently. _This is Eddie’s time_. His thumb toys with the elastic band of Eddie’s underwear clinging to his narrow hips. He dips the tip of his thumb inside, pulling it back to stroke at the soft hairs he can feel, leading down to the untouched eden beyond. 

“Eds, can I-” he’s about to say _can I touch you properly_ , but he doesn’t get the chance. Eddie keens, making a sound like he’s sobbing, and curls into Richie like a cat. A wetness spreads through the fabric of his underwear. Richie continues working him through it, hand massaging against him in the same rhythm until he’s stopped shaking, and begins weakly tugging his hand away. “Well fuck,” Richie says over Eddie’s ragged breathing, “I’m clearly amazing at this." He lifts his hand into the light, marvelling at the faint sheen of damp coating his fingertips. Were Eddie not watching him so intently, Richie would suck them into his mouth, chase the flavour. "You were so fucking hot just then.” 

Eddie lets out a shaky breath that might have been a laugh, and flops back against the steering wheel. The horn blares, making them both jump, and then dissolve into giggles when Eddie clutches him, terrified. 

“You actually are pretty amazing at that,” Eddie admits, begrudgingly, already tucking and buttoning and zipping himself back into respectability. “I really would much rather you get to experiment further with your newly found skill but,” Eddie leans in, kisses him, then darts for the door handle, “I really gotta go now.” 

Richie tries, feebly, to hang onto him as he clambers out of the truck, complaining all the while about how sticky and gross and uncomfortable he is thanks to Richie’s ‘groping’. He stands on the sidewalk, using the wing mirror to smooth his hair, and Richie just stares forlornly at his silhouette in the light of the waning moon. He’s dopily, dangerously in love with this boy, and it might just kill him at some point. But that would be okay, as long as he gets these snatches of time, just them, hot and perfect and private, in the shadows where no one can see. 

“Okay, I’m hoping my mom will be too angry that I’m late to notice the hickey,” Eddie says, pulling his shirt collar up as best he can to hide it. “But you owe me for that, Tozier. Couldn’t you have aimed a little lower? Jeez.” 

“Noted,” Richie says, smirking. “You are owed one hickey-bestowal, placed anywhere on my body.” 

Eddie shoots him a scornful look. “Go home, idiot.”

“I had a lovely time tonight too, Eds.” 

Eddie grins at him as he heads off, blowing a quick kiss before he turns on his heel, running full pelt back towards his house. Richie watches him wistfully, along with the battered heart on a leash, sprung from his own chest, trailing after. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry im being crap about updating, i appreciate you all and here's how I show it: a whole entire chapter of porn. u welcome. thank you for your continued support xxx

“I wanna know what happened at the dance! Did they play the new Madonna song?” Roberta persists, on her back on Richie's bed, legs tossed akimbo, tossing a Rubix cube into the air. Long ago having mastered the art of completing the puzzle, Richie has inked various doodles onto the squares to make it more interesting. Now, the goofy faces, rocketships, sharks, snails and crude penises twirl through the air above his sister, telling a nonsensical pictogram story. Gently but firmly, Richie extends his foot into her side and shoves her off his bed. The Rubix cube lands on top of her, then rolls off towards the door. “Ow! I’m telling-”

“I saw, darling,” their mom says from the open doorway of his bedroom, face and hair still glam from her party, but in her nightclothes now. She holds a glass of red wine in her hand. Richie whips his head round to her in surprise. He’s taken off his dress pants and changed into a fresh pair of boxers, but left his shirt on, tie unknotted, the buttons open at the throat. Bizarrely, he feels self-conscious under her gaze; where had that soft, motherly appraisal been when he was clean and tidy at the beginning of the night instead of ruffled, bruised and mildly intoxicated? “It’s far too late for you to still be pestering your brother, Bertie. Run along and get into bed. I’ll come and kiss you goodnight.” 

Roberta sighs, getting to her bunny slippered feet and shuffles to the door. Maggie Tozier watches her daughter, amusedly, and strokes a hand over her pigtails as she brushes past. She lifts her eyes to Richie again, twinkling. 

“Did you have a nice evening, sweetheart?” 

“Uh huh,” Richie says, playing with the end of his tie. He pulls it all the way free of his collar, winding it around his hand. It shouldn’t feel uncomfortable to talk to your own mother about a school dance. She’s eerily passive, accepting, calm. Like she's in a permanent trance. He gets the sense he could tell her anything - every damn salacious thing he has ever done - and none of it would phase her, but also that she couldn’t care less to know. “S’just a boring old dance.”

"I'm sure you made the best of it," she says in that flat, inflection-less voice. "You have a visitor," she says, unexpectedly. 

Richie's head lifts, frowning. "A visitor?"

Maggie steps to one side, crossing back over the threshold of his room and into the hall. From her left, another person appears, being extra cautious not to brush against her inappropriately revealing lilac silk robe. 

“Uh, hey,” Eddie says, hand raised; his cheeks are scarlet. 

“I believe your friend would like to stay tonight,” Maggie says, then takes a drink of wine. “If that’s alright with you.” 

Richie’s suddenly very aware that his legs are pants-less. “Oh, yeah. O'course. You okay with the floor, Eds? I know the bed’s ginormous but I got a lotta leg to stretch out.”

Eddie smiles, relieved by the familiar stupid joke no doubt, and takes a careful step into the room, one eye trained on Richie’s mom. “It’s polite to offer the bed to guests and go sleep on the couch or something.”

“I’m sure you boys are used to sharing,” Maggie says mildly, and blows Richie a soft kiss. “It’s late, honey. Get to sleep soon, okay?” 

“Yeah,” Richie says vaguely, too pricked up by Eddie’s appearance in his room to formulate his usual bitchy 'what do you care' response. “Sure.”

She drifts off, pulling the door closed. Eddie waits, listening for her retreating footsteps, then swiftly goes to lock it. He’s changed out of his suit, Richie notes, now in standard Eddie attire of belted too-big jeans and a polo shirt with his track team windbreaker over the top. It’s weirdly thrilling, to see him back in his normal clothes, no longer trussed up and uncomfortable in his dad's ill-fitting suit. There’s a telltale hem of mud splatter on the cuffs of his jeans; he’d cycled over here, then. It’s around midnight, so that must have been a cold, very dark ride. 

_And for what reward?_

“Is it okay that I’m here?” Eddie asks, probably because Richie is gawping at him silently like some mute village idiot. “I… know we literally just saw each other but, um. I just got home and fought with mom and then… well, I just missed you. So I thought it was probably my turn to sneak over here.” 

“Super sneaky,” Richie says, nodding, “coming in my front door. Asking my mom to escort you up here. Have you thought about applying for the FBI when you graduate?” 

Eddie gives him a withering look, but something about the snarky jibe seems to have broken a thread of tension, because Eddie shrugs off his jacket, throwing it onto Richie’s games chest as he walks over to the bed. 

“Fuck you. The sneaking all happened at my house.” 

Richie has gathered himself at last, propelled into normalcy by the familiar wrestle of one-up-man-ship that they fall into so easily. He pats the space beside him on the bed, eager to have him close now that he's here, and Eddie settles into it so quickly that it’s as if he’d been dreaming of cuddling into Richie's side ever since they parted ways. As casually as he can given that his heart is going triple speed at just the notion of Eddie _missing_ him after just a couple of hours, Richie threads his arm round Eddie’s shoulders and pulls him in tight. 

“That’s a hell of a trick, breaking out of Mommy K’s prison cell,” Richie informs him, impressed. “You missed me that much?”

Eddie’s answering sigh is long-suffering. He spreads a hand over the exposed triangle of skin between Richie's open shirt lapels. “Don't get all smug. I don’t know what you’ve done to me, asshole. I had to drink Calpol and convince her it’d knock me out so hard that I'd sleep through church tomorrow so not to bother waking me. I'm gonna ride over from here, meet her at the chapel.”

Richie sifts through this information, ears pinkening. “So, wait, you not only managed to appease your mother and sneak out without her noticing, but you also wrangled an excuse for her not to check in on you in the morning? All 'cause you wanna stay with me? Eds, I am _flattered_.” 

“You’re a terrible influence on me.” 

Richie chuckles, burying his face, briefly into the top of Eddie’s head. He inhales, getting a glorious whiff of that peony shampoo. “Did you shower?” 

“Yes, obviously,” Eddie drawls. He starts backwards, suddenly scandalised. “Did you _not_ shower?” 

Richie hides a laugh at his expression. “Um…”

“That’s so disgusting,” Eddie scolds. “After we…” 

He pinkens, trailing off, and Richie’s laugh finally escapes. “After we what?”

“You _know_ ,” Eddie snaps, arms folding.

Richie can’t have that. He reaches out, gently tugging at those locked arms, then pulling him back down into an embrace. Grumbling, Eddie goes, but clearly not happy about it. “So gross,” he mutters against Richie’s side. One of his fingers toys with Richie’s shirt button, slipping it through its hole. Then the next one down. Then the next. As he approaches the final button, Richie’s stomach clenches, realising that, despite Eddie's pontifications about his lack of hygiene, he is being undressed.

“What were you doing, before I came over?” Eddie asks, slightly too casual. 

His light, delicate fingers skim over the concave plane of Richie’s non-existent belly. A very fine trail of hair has begun to grow beneath his belly button, and Eddie traces it with his pinky. It’s doing wonderful, incredible things to Richie’s dick, which it’s impossible to pretend isn’t hardening rapidly. These tighty-whities do nothing to conceal it from Eddie's downward gaze. 

“Um,” Richie says, trying to remember, “thinking up all the ways I might be able to murder my small demon of a sister with a Rubix cube.”

“Hmm,” Eddie sounds, displeased. His fingers dance lower, following the trail of hair down to the elastic waistband of Richie’s underwear. “Wanna know what I was doing?”

“Fuck, I dunno,” Richie chokes out, “playing solitaire?” 

“Nope,” Eddie says. His hand flattens, fingertips burrowing under the elastic; Richie’s breath catches in his throat. The hand resting atop Eddie’s shoulder squeezes around the bone. “I was in the shower,” Eddie continues brazenly, working his hand beneath the underwear in slow, maddening increments, “and I was thinking about you. How you looked at me in the truck when you pushed me back against the steering wheel. Like you wanted to tear off all my clothes right there.”

“Fuck,” Richie squeaks. The tip of Eddie’s index finger has reached the tip of his cock, which is flattened against his pelvis; it’s the barest hint of a touch, but it’s _Eddie’s_ finger, _Eddie’s_ touch, in a place nobody else has ever touched him. He feels like he could come just from the agonisingly scant stroke of that enterprising finger, belonging to the boy who frequents his dirty daydreams. “I did want to,” he assures Eddie, “I really did, Eds, _fuck_.”

“Do you still?” Eddie asks, as if he were asking if Richie still wants to go to the mall on Saturday. 

“Yes,” Richie breathes, tailed by an involuntary whimper as Eddie’s hand plunges a lot further into his pants. This time, he presses the whole length of his small hand against Richie’s dick, as if he were measuring the length of it. His fingers don't reach past the end. “Yes, I do. Eds-”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says, breezily. “Actually,” he purrs after a moment's thought, moving to wrap his fingers around Richie’s thickness, “I don’t really mind. I quite like it when you say it. As long as no one else does. I’ll only be Eds for you.”

Richie tips his head backwards, suddenly scorching hot all over. Eddie is a goddamned furnace beside him, still fully dressed as he pushes a few soft kisses to the bared skin covering Richie’s ribs, gently sliding the fist around his dick up and down. Like he’s playing, experimenting. Richie’s knees are slightly bent, the soles of his feet against the mattress; his thighs quiver, making him realise how tense he’s holding himself. He feels Eddie shifting in closer, pressing his body into Richie’s side so he can mouth, softly, at his exposed throat. 

Richie groans, and Eddie squeezes his hand around his dick, sending a jolt of pleasure through him. “You have a really nice cock,” he whispers, stroking up and down again. _Well fuck. That's seared into the brain forever. No need to ever again watch porn to get off._ Eddie's thumb sweeps over the head of his dick, through the pearl of wet that’s spouted there, and smears it over the length of him in his next downward stroke. “Can I take these off?" he asks Richie, soft and curious. "I wanna see.” 

Waaaay too far gone to deny Eddie anything, Richie just nods, and then moans in weak protest when Eddie lets go of his dick and pulls his hand out of his underwear. Eddie just chuckles at him, sitting up and moving his attention to pulling off the damp boxer briefs that are obstructing his view. Dumbly, Richie lifts his hips, hands going weakly to help, but Eddie just bats him away, shimmying them down his thighs, then down the never ending poles of his legs until he pulls them over Richie’s feet, tossing them to the floor. 

Transfixed as he is on the sight of Eddie undressing him with such rapt determination, it takes a moment for Richie’s coherent brain to catch up to the fact that he’s naked, basically, in front of Eddie. His shirt is kind of still on, not that it’s doing a whole lot hanging off his shoulders like this, but his nether regions are on full display. What’s more, Eddie can’t seem to take his eyes off them. 

“Please, don’t compare yourself, Eds," Richie garbles, his humour defence mechanism kicking in before he can stop it, "not everyone can have an addendum with such impressive girth and length. It’s genetics, I think, and a healthy amount of pure manliness that some of us simply do not possess-”

“Shut up or I’ll leave you like this right now,” Eddie warns, but he’s laughing, crawling back up the bed to kiss him. Richie does shut up, partly because Eddie’s tongue is in his mouth, but mostly because he feels like he might die if Eddie doesn’t resume what he was doing in the next minute. Like he’s heard, Eddie falls once again to the side of him, breaking the kiss in order to look down as he brings his hand back to Richie’s erection, taking firm hold. “Fuck,” he mutters as Richie’s dick twitches in his grip. “I think I’m gay.”

Richie laughs so hard at this that it shakes his his whole body, including his hips, propelling them forward so he’s bucking into Eddie’s fist, which tapers off the chuckles into a groan. Eddie gets quiet then, concentrating as he works his hand in a steady, pumping rhythm, occasionally experimenting with a flare of something different, like a twist or a flick of the thumb. Honestly, it wouldn’t matter if Eddie dug his nails in, Richie’s pretty sure, because this is the best thing that’s ever happened to his dick, or his body in general, and he can already tell he’s going to come so hard he’s at risk of slipping into an alternate dimension. 

“Oh, fuck, Eds,” Richie whimpers, curled into him, speaking the words into his cheek. “Fuck, fuck- I love you, you know that? Fuck. I’m gonna come, wow-”

Eddie speeds up, using his other hand to angle Richie’s face and kiss him. It works like a charm; the orgasm charges through Richie like a rocket launching, a fizz of pure ecstasy methodically scorching along every one of his nerves. He mumbles incoherent, gooey nonsense against Eddie’s lips, something about being sorry he’s making such a sticky mess of Eddie’s hand. Eddie laughs at him, softly, not breaking the kiss as his fist continues working, until Richie’s falling back against the pillows, spent even though he’s done virtually no work. “I’m wiping your come on your hideous shirt,” Eddie informs him then, picking up one of Richie’s more garish numbers from where it had been wedged between the pillows. When each of his fingers has been wiped dry, Eddie rolls over to look at him, an elated, amused smile on his lips. “Okay?” 

Richie just groans again, then surges in, knocking Eddie backwards as he kisses him, hard. “You have quite the mouth on you, Kaspbrak,” Richie growls. “How’s about I tell you all the things I’ve been thinking about doing with you, huh? See how you like it.” 

Eddie’s laughter catches in his throat. His pupils dilate, fingers raking up the back of Richie’s neck, tangling into his hair. “You’ve been thinking about me too?”

Once again, the absurdity of this question makes Richie laugh. That Eddie could believe Richie is able to staunch thoughts of him at all. Despite Richie’s worries that he’s being embarrassingly transparent about his affections, Eddie seems yet again to be utterly clueless. It would be maddening, if it wasn’t so sweet. Richie ducks his chin down, nudging Eddie’s jaw up with his nose so he can kiss his soft, pale throat. The hickey he left earlier has deepened in hue, a dark crimson stain on the otherwise flawless skin. 

“I think about you all the time,” Richie tells him honestly; a shiver wracks Eddie’s body. 

“Y-yeah?” 

Richie smiles against him, leaning away to adjust his skewed glasses, and nods. He slips his hands beneath Eddie’s polo shirt, rucking it up to reveal his stomach and rapidly rising chest. 

“I’ve had feature-length fantasies about peeling off your preppy shirt, Eds,” Richie says, bunching the material in his hands and using it to haul Eddie upright, into a sitting position. “Lift your arms for me, Princess.”

Eddie does so, obedient as a puppy, hanging on every word tripping off Richie’s tongue. Richie pulls it over his head, forcing himself not to yank it, because he so badly wants to tease Eddie into incoherency. He’s got many ideas brewing, and a whole night with Eddie ahead behind a locked door, in a ridiculously large bed. Already, his cock is beginning to perk up as it recognises the potential here. Richie balls up the shirt and chucks it aside, much to Eddie’s silent chagrin. 

Before he can complain about creases or whatever, Richie seals their mouths together, leaning him back against the pillows and kissing him, open-mouthed and deep, until he’s desperate, mewling, hips tilting up to press his hard-on into Richie’s bare thigh. At the feel of that rough denim scratching against him, Richie knows that the jeans have to go. He pulls back from the kiss, shifting back to straddle Eddie’s thighs as he sets about unfastening the belt holding Eddie’s baggy jeans up. He pulls it free of the loops in one strong move, making Eddie’s eyes go wide. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, cheeks hot and pink. Richie raises an eyebrow at him, questioningly. “That was hot,” Eddie mutters, shrugging. “You gonna whip me with that, or what?” 

Richie glances down at the belt still in his hand. He throws it aside. “You have a seriously kinky side, Eds.”

Eddie grins, knocking him with one denim clad knee. “Only for you, fuckface.” 

“Speaking of,” Richie says, stomach flipping as he hooks his fingers into the loose waistband of Eddie’s jeans and pulls, “was wondering if I could try out one of scenes from my fave feature length fantasy.”

Eddie’s eyes have gone glassy and wide, watching Richie tug the jeans off his legs. He’s wearing a pair of navy blue boxer briefs with the word ‘Wednesday’ written on the hem. Richie raises an eyebrow, but decides, quite commendably, to hold onto this question for later. 

“What is it?” Eddie asks, voice barely above a whisper. 

Too caught on the sight of Eddie’s erection tenting the blue fabric, Richie forgets to answer aloud. Pure, unbridled lust fuels his next thought, and he leans in, first to trail his tongue along the strip of paler, almost translucent skin above Eddie’s waistband, and then to sink lower, to push hot, damp, open mouthed kisses over the outline of his dick. At once, Eddie’s back arches, his breath punched out of his lungs. He digs a hand into Richie’s hair, whining as he pushes forward into the touch. Richie grunts appreciatively as the painful ache of his hair threatening to rip straight from his scalp pulses his blood through his veins, helping to swell his dick back to an incredible hardness. Richie doesn’t stop mouthing at him until the front of his underwear is soaked, the whole curve of his dick visible through the spit-soaked fabric. 

He risks a glance up then, locking eyes with Eddie over the length of his body, and stills for a moment, lips hovering in the air above Eddie's crotch. He’s been so engrossed in his task that he’d nearly forgotten to look his fill. Eddie is celestial, glorious, like this. He’s bare and wild with want, freed of the anxious, overly-conscious shackles that keep him normally so rigid and neat. Now, his hair is tousled from where he’s been tossing against the pillows. He wears a vibrant, peach-pink flush across his chest and neck. His nipples, small and dainty, are perked up, as though begging to have a mouth sealed over them. 

Unable to help himself, Richie reaches up to brush one with his thumb, and Eddie yelps, one hand closing around it. “Fuck, Richie-”

“I’m gonna take these off now,” Richie tells him in a low, commanding voice that he’s sure he’s never used before. He snaps, lightly, the waistband of the underwear against Eddie’s hip to articulate what he means. “And then I’m going to put my mouth on your dick, and suck you until you come. Okay?” 

Eddie’s mouth falls open a little. His dick twitches, and Richie feels a surge of destructive, overpowering want come over him, alongside a healthy dollop of smugness that he's so obviously rendered him speechless. Eddie nods twice, swallowing hard, and Richie sets to it immediately, pulling at the underwear with impatience, no longer able to consider being a tease. Eddie lifts his hips, helping him, and then they’re off at last, tossed to the floor with everything else they'd been wearing. For good measure, Richie shrugs out of his shirt too, so they can both be naked, completely. 

Eddie is propped up on his elbows to watch the spectacle; Richie's glasses will probably only hinder things, but there is no way that Richie is missing the sight of Eddie staring down at him like he’s some shining God, so he shoves them right up his nose, and moves in for the kill. Eddie’s cock is just like the rest of him: modest in size, but completely, mouth-wateringly perfect from base to tip. It’s shaped into a taper at the head, fuller and thicker nearer his pert, tightly drawn balls, and framed with a neat, soft tassel of light brown hair. 

Richie loves it at once, just as completely as he loves every other millimetre of Eddie’s being. He wraps long fingers around it, already close enough to press his lips to the head. A soft, chaste kiss, just to start. Just to show his appreciation. And then, all chastity is knocked clean out of his head when Eddie groans, elbows giving out as he flops backwards, one shaky hand reaching to fist in Richie’s hair. Richie’s tongue pushes out from between his lips, eager for that first real taste; it doesn’t disappoint. He’s fresh and sharp, like warm apple cider, tart with a ghost of sweetness. Richie could drink the taste of him forever, and never grow bored. He opens his lips wider, and pulls the whole head into his mouth, letting it roll against the flat of his tongue. 

Eddie keens, twisting on the bed, thighs pressing against Richie’s ears. Richie sinks lower, filled with wonder at how easily Eddie slides into him, how much he can take, how it seems to drive Eddie just as wild as it drives him, to be so connected. When Eddie is prodding, firm, into the soft flesh at the back of his throat, Richie pulls back, letting his lips drag, and Eddie makes a sound like he’s sobbing. 

Concerned, Richie pulls all the way off, unable to help giving him a few gentle pumps with his fist as he searches to meet Eddie’s eyes. “You okay?” 

“What-? Yes! Don’t _stop_ , you moron-”

Richie laughs, then sinks right back down into the space between Eddie’s bunched up knees, his own legs dangling off the end of the bed. This time, he suckles at the base, Eddie’s pubic hair bristling against his cheek, and then licks a long, slow stripe up to the tip. When he reaches it, a dribble of precome has begun oozing out, so he swipes it up greedily with his tongue, then sinks his mouth over the length of him, humming as the flavour spreads. 

“Rich-ie, oh my _fucking God_ ,” Eddie is babbling, hips twitching, as if he’s only just able to stop them thrusting upwards. “Fuck, this is- how are you so fucking _good_ at this what the fuck-”

Matters are becoming pretty wet and messy down here, and Richie can only sincerely hope Eddie had meant what he said about his gross-out factor getting overridden by lust. There are strands of spit and other fluids escaping from the tight circle of his lips, dripping onto his fingers where they’ve dipped to cradle and play gently with Eddie’s balls. It’s for no other reason than fascination, feeling them weighty and taut in his palm, but Eddie seems to really like it, if his groans of encouragement are anything to go by. 

It’s drawing to an end quickly - more quickly than Richie would have liked, given how much he’s enjoying the experience - but Eddie is clearly on the brink, so Richie picks up the pace, one hand on Eddie’s balls, the other reaching up to play with his nipple again, and Eddie cries out, high and breathy, a gibberish word that sounds a little like Richie’s name. Then, suddenly, he’s coming, spurts of salty, thin moisture coating Richie’s tongue. Richie had wondered if even he might be grossed out by it, but is unsurprised to find, just like everything else Eddie-related, he enthusiastically laps up every drop. He sits up when it’s over, angling his face away to wipe the excessive amount of spit and come from his chin so Eddie won’t see, and is then promptly pulled down to lie next to him. Eddie pushes the hair out of his face, leaving his hands either side of Richie’s head. Richie grins at him, happy and a little short of breath. 

“This is the only way I can think of to show you how fucking amazing you are,” Eddie tells him seriously, and then leans forward to kiss him, slobber, come and all. 

Richie laughs as Eddie’s tongue pushes in, determined and forceful; he lets Eddie demonstrate his gratitude for a minute or so, then pushes him gently back, planting a kiss on his nose. “Eds, you don’t have to intentionally squick yourself out to say thanks. A simple ‘Richie, you’re the best blowjob giver in the world' will suffice.” 

It must have been pretty good, because Eddie says, without a trace of mockery, “Richie, you’re the best blowjob giver in the world.” 

“Huh,” Richie replies, eyebrows raised, “can you say that again, but this time I’ll get Bertie’s Barbie doll karaoke recorder-”

“I’m never saying it again.” Eddie rolls onto his back, looking exhausted all of a sudden. “Imprint it into your memory forever, Tozier.” 

Richie sighs, relenting, and promptly drifts up through the ceiling as the euphoria of all that’s just happened begins inflating each of his limbs. He rests a hand on Eddie’s hip, feeling possessive, and tracks a gaze over his naked body, marvelling freely. 

“Was kinda weird with Bill, huh,” Eddie says, mind obviously somewhere very different. He swallows, eyebrows pinching together with worry. “Do you think he…”

Eddie doesn’t finish the sentence, but it doesn’t matter. “No,” Richie says confidently, “ I don’t think he did anything. He wouldn’t have told anyone, he’s even more loyal than Bev or Ben. I think he was confused, though. He might try and have one of those deep, meaningful Bill-chats with us separately at some point.”

“Oh God,” Eddie says, “I don’t know if I could handle that.” 

“Might be good to talk to someone about all this,” Richie suggests tentatively. “Not that, like me, you’re dying to dissect every moment we spend together with someone, but sometimes it’s good to just talk shit out. If you’re confused or whatever.”

Eddie turns his head, frowning. “I’m not confused. Are you confused?” 

“No,” Richie tells him, then wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him close. “No, I went through all the confusion at fifteen. I’m not confused now. I’m just in love with you.” 

Richie can feel the breath catch in his lungs. _Adorable_. “I like hearing that,” Eddie confesses, a smile ghosting on his lips. “You’re in love with me. So weird.”

Richie laughs. “Dork.”

“Maybe I’ll… talk to Bill. Or Bev. She might be easier.” He frowns again, moving his gaze away for a moment, then pinging it back. “But not ‘cause I’m confused. Just ‘cause it might be nice to talk, like you said.”

“You’re not confused?” Richie asks, fingers tracing a circle pattern on the small of Eddie’s back.

“No,” Eddie says dismissively, mind obviously already racing onto something else. “I’m in love with you too, we’ve been through this.” 

Richie’s smile is glowing, bright and bold, illuminating enough to light a whole football stadium. It makes Eddie roll his eyes, but he dutifully shuffles in for a hug nonetheless. “Never thought I liked school dance nights much,” Richie says into the crown of Eddie’s head. “But this one rules.”

“Now who’s a dork,” Eddie replies, then sniffs him, loudly. “We need to shower now. And brush our teeth, like, a lot.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end jsyk. I estimate 2-3 more chapters now. I'm so happy to hear from you all! Glad you're enjoying the story <3 needed to give these two a chance at happiness, ja feel? xxx

“I’m having a huge party for my birthday,” Richie announces, flopping onto the brownish strip of grass that is generously referred to as the schoolyard, in the centre of the makeshift circle the others have arranged themselves in. His empty rucksack strap slips from his shoulder and he hurls it mindlessly away from himself, glad to be rid of the thing after a long, hard day of hauling it class to class. “Be nice to me and I’ll think about inviting you.”

“Richie, I was in the middle of a sentence,” Mike complains; when Richie turns to him, he’s holding the rucksack, rubbing his arm crossly where it had struck him. 

“Where's the party gonna be?” Ben asks, perky as always at the prospect of a Beverly-inclusive club hangout. 

“My place, Saturday after next, eight ‘til late,” Richie says off the top of his head. “Gifts expected, babes optional. Eddie, you’re let off about the babes because I’ve already invited your mom.” 

Eddie leans into the middle of the circle to smack him. “Just for that, I’m bringing your sister.”

People actually laugh at this incredibly distasteful joke, much to Richie’s dismay. He shoots Eddie a look of betrayal, but finds that he’s - rather embarrassingly - physically incapable of keeping a smile off his face when he sees Eddie’s face nowadays. He pulls his gaze away, hot and discomfited. 

“We have to get you gifts?” Stan asks, sounding troubled. 

“I will accept stolen liquor from parents,” Richie allows, gracious as ever, “or any kind of confectionary. Extra points for candy wrestled from the hands of small infants.”

“I’ll tell Bev,” Ben says, gleeful. 

“That girl’s gift had better be pot brownies, or I will have to sue,” Richie says. He feels, rather than sees, Eddie’s blush. He only just resists turning to wink at him. “So, any of you other Losers actually bringing a date? Or shall I tell the butler to set the table for the usual sad seven?” 

“You don’t actually have a butler, do you?” Stan asks dubiously. 

“Stan, you’ve known me since I was three. Don’t you think you’d have seen a butler lurking around my house by now?” 

“Probably not,” Eddie cuts in. “Your house is like Buckingham Palace. He could be hiding anywhere.” 

“I’m bringing Audra,” Bill offers, stoppering up the counter on Richie’s tongue. He turns to Bill, mildly surprised; birthday parties have traditionally been a Losers-only affair until now. “If that’s okay, I mean.” 

“Course, big Bill. Audra’s an honorary member at this point. Anyone else?” 

“I was thinking about asking Patty Blum out now that Tanya hates me,” Stan says, a little gloomy, a little wistful. “Maybe I could ask her to your party. Might take the pressure off.”

“Great idea, Stan the Man,” Richie says, scornfully, “your last date was ruined by your insistence on hanging out non-stop with this insufferable rat pack. The best remedy to that is to subject this new girl to a Losers-only party where there’ll be no escape from us.” 

Eddie hits him again; at this point, Richie’s starting to think of it as foreplay, and has to squash the inappropriate urge to leap over there and pin him to the ground. “Stop bullying Stan, asshole.”

“You slap like your mom,” Richie says, just to see his nostrils flare in that adorable way. 

Bill has to break up the ensuing slap-fight, which is probably just as well, because Richie can feel he’s beginning to get a bit excited. They settle back into a semi-circle around Richie, throwing bunches of grass at each other, laughing and chatting about the party. At some point, Richie’s head somehow moves to rest in Eddie’s lap. He’s obviously no more clued in to why that might be than anyone else, but even so, Eddie doesn’t shove him off for five whole minutes, which is cool of him. When they eventually start to get to their feet and wander over to the bike rack, Bill slides his gaze over to Richie, that curiosity and concern still in the back of his stare. Richie just pulls a face at him, turning back to argue with Eddie about the importance of SPF. 

*

That night, Richie is laying on his back, head hanging off the end of Eddie’s bed, while Eddie finishes writing up their Biology report. Richie gladly offered to write it instead, but Eddie had merely snapped that his handwriting was that of _'a two-fingered toddler that had drunk too much cherryade'_ , so Richie had wisely chosen to be the one who dictated their ideas. 

“So, uh, what do you actually want for your birthday?” Eddie asks, tongue poking out as he carefully copies the word ‘membrane’ in his neatest print. It still looks like chicken scratch, but Richie is in love with him, and would never dream of saying this aloud. “Not candy or alcohol.”

“Has anyone ever told you your writing style is reminiscent of how a chicken might scrape the floor with their talon in search of corn?” Richie’s smirk is upside down, but he’s hopeful that it still lands. 

Eddie kicks him so hard that he falls off the bed. “Fuck you."

“Ow. Fuck you too. You’re gonna get me a present, Princess?”

"Yes. Shocker. I wanna get you a real present. But at the moment I’m leaning towards a dog turd.”

Richie sits up, delighted, and rests his chin on the edge of the bed. “Such a generous lover.” 

Without looking up from the homework, Eddie lifts his middle finger. 

“You don’t have to get me a present, Eds.” Richie hoists himself back onto the bed with panache, sending the textbook sliding onto the floor. Eddie sighs in frustration, but picks it up without comment and begins flicking back to the page they’d been working from. “You’re the best present a guy could ask for.”

“I thought you were getting pot brownies out of this situation,” Eddie says. 

“Well, apart from pot brownies, obviously.” Richie leans over to kiss his soft little cheek, but Eddie shoves him back, annoyed. “Ow, what the hell?”

“We’re almost done! I’m not letting you distract me before I finish this paragraph.” 

“Can’t we finish it in the morning?” Richie wheedles, fingers creeping over to tug the pencil from his fingers. “I wanna kiss you.”

Eddie’s fingers loosen, briefly, and he looks like he might give in. But then he snatches it free, glowering. “Go kiss the pillow for a minute, I’m busy.” 

Never one to back down from an obvious challenge, Richie’s mind begins categorising every one of Eddie’s weak points. Ribs: ticklish as hell. Ear: extremely sensitive to lips/tongue action. Neck: easily hickeyable. Dick: ...too obvious. 

“Stop sizing me up like I’m cattle,” Eddie warns him, eraser-end of the pencil jabbing into his chest. “I’m serious about this, we need to finish tonight.”

“But _do_ we,” Richie argues, very convincingly in his opinion. He hooks his chin onto Eddie’s shoulder, allowing his despondent sigh to skim the outer shell of his ear. Eddie tenses, obviously trying not to let his affectation show. Richie rests a hand on his thigh, perfectly placed far enough from his crotch to argue innocence. “Have I ever told you how five-foot-nothing wannabe scholars turn me on?” 

Eddie swats at him, but it’s half-hearted. He misspells the next word, so Richie whispers the jumbled letters into his ear, soft and breathy, fingers tapping against his pyjama pants. “Cell mutation is spelled m-u-t-a-t-i-” 

He doesn’t get any further. The workbook and pencil slip to the floor as Eddie launches himself into Richie’s front, pressing him backwards until they’re both flat out on the bed. Eddie’s kisses are hard, rough with his irritation, and Richie’s thighs feel like they’re ablaze with how hot he finds it. Eddie’s hand works its way into his hair, tugging and tugging, like he wishes he could rip it out by the handful. 

“Fucking asshole,” Eddie says into his mouth, “I was so close.” 

“Don’t worry baby, I’ll get you there,” Richie promises, flipping them over so Eddie is underneath him. Eddie stares up, a little stunned by the sudden change of position, but adjusts quickly, dragging Richie back down into another bruising kiss. “Hey, so,” Richie manages to say in between the meeting of their mouths, “about what I did the other day… with the dick sucking.”

Eddie’s answering grunt sounds equally exasperated as acknowledging. “Uh huh.”

“I was wondering if, um, I could do it again?” 

Eddie pushes against his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “You’re asking me if you can give me a blowjob?” 

“I’m a polite young man. Ask my mom. Heck, ask your mom.” 

Eddie knees him lightly in the balls. “Richie, I would be very okay with you giving me a second blowjob. The first one was pretty okay.” 

“Pretty okay?” Richie gasps out, still doubled over from the assault on his jewels. “Fuck, well I clearly gotta do better.” He reaches, sighing theatrically, for the waistband of Eddie’s pyjama pants. “Help me get these off, damn it.” 

*

Thirty minutes later, Richie is almost the same man he had been, except now he has a helluva jaw ache, a good few strands of hair missing, and has quite possibly earned the title of the universe’s best blowjob-giver. Eddie is curled into his side, faintly trembling still from the intensity of his third orgasm. The trick, Richie has discovered due to trial and not-a-lot-of-error, is to play the long game. To get him to the point where he feels like he’s practically incoherent, and then take a breather, let him simmer down before going back in, and driving him to the edge again. 

It earns him a great deal of frustration-born verbal abuse, not to mention the hair tearing, but it’s more than worth it to watch Eddie lose himself like that. To hear him sob Richie’s name so loud that Richie fears Sonia could hear through the walls and prescription narcotics. To have him twitching and clutching at Richie, writhing in ecstasy as Richie’s unrelenting tongue laps up everything he has to offer. It’s been around five minutes now, and Richie’s not sure whether he should be worried. Is it normal to be rendered mute after multiple orgasms? He’s not the expert. Gently, he pushes against Eddie’s shoulder so he can look him in the face. 

“All okay down there, Princess?” 

“Please don’t call me that right now. I cannot get hard again. I’ll die.” 

“Knew you got off on that nickname, you little perv.” 

Eddie swallows; his forehead is shiny with perspiration. His pupils are wide and dark. “I really love you a lot, you know.” 

Richie chuckles, sweeping a few strands of hair back from where they're sticking to his forehead. “I think you’re a li’l delirious from lack of blood to the brain. Y’know, due to it all being in your dick, thanks to me.” 

It’s troubling, more than anything else, when Eddie just gives him a weak nod instead of the usual battery. “I feel like, um. I need to talk to you about some stuff.”

Instantly, Richie’s stomach plummets through the mattress, leaving a gaping hole in his abdomen. He tries not to let the sudden absence of his vital organ show on his face, but Eddie definitely suspects, because his arms come up to brace Richie’s shoulders, stroking lightly. It’s comforting, but the gaping hole in his gut throbs, not even nearly placated. 

“No, no, don’t freak out,” Eddie says, leaning forward to kiss him softly. “It’s just… I want you to know everything that’s going on in my head. So you don’t get the wrong idea.” 

“Gotta be honest, sweetums, if you don’t spit it out in the next ten seconds I’m gonna Superman pose outta your window onto the lawn,” Richie tells him, truthfully. 

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Naked?” 

Richie glances down at himself. “I’ve been nakeder.” 

Despite Eddie insisting he remove his shirt, Richie is, in fact, still wearing underwear and pants, even if they have been torn open at the fly. 

“It’s hard to say it,” Eddie confesses, chewing his lip. “Please don’t take this personally. Because it’s really not you. Crap, that sounds so contrived. But it’s true, okay, it’s me. If anything, you being you makes it better, because I think the fact that it’s you means I can overcome it eventually.”

“Man, I’m trying real hard to beat my ADHD back with a stick here, but I’m like ninety percent sure you’re just saying nonsense.” 

Eddie nods in understanding, letting out a quiet sigh. “Okay. Then I’m gonna be blunt.”

“Thank the fuckin’ Lord.”

“I can’t give you a blowjob right now.” 

Richie’s malfunctioning mind screeches to a halt, bolts and nuts flying as the gears skitter and jerk. “...oh.” 

“Not because I don’t, like, really _really_ want that,” Eddie says hurriedly, hands smoothing up and down Richie’s biceps. “But I’ve worked super hard to get to a place where I’m comfortable doing _anything_ sexual. I honestly thought I might be asexual for a long time. But then, obviously, um… you changed things. When we started, um. This. And then I kinda... made myself think about it with you. Because I knew I wanted it, I could feel how my body reacted to you. When you touched me. Or teased me. How badly it wanted you. And after you kissed me that first time I was, like, pretty sure you wanted it too. So I made myself imagine what it might be like if we ever did get to... this stage. And that’s why I’m not freaking out whenever you touch me now, because I played it out like a bajillion times in my head. I think I even told you that once, when I was stoned.” 

Richie is silent for a long moment, doing his best to process the barrage of information Eddie just spewed all over the bed. The look on Eddie’s face is oscillating between terror and mortification, so Richie cups his hot cheek, just looking for a way to calm him down. 

“A bajillion times?” Richie asks, voice croaky and thin. “I’m surprised you have any dick skin left.”

Unsurprisingly, Eddie rolls his eyes. “Serious time, Rich. I’m telling you about how I’ve struggled to overcome my childhood trauma-based mental problems to be able to have sex with you.”

“Not really the time for jokes, huh,” Richie deduces, wisely. 

“No, dickwad.”

“I love you? I’m sorry? I don’t have a fuckin’ clue what to say, Eds. That’s wild. You wanted to bone me so bad you forced yourself to imagine every possible way it could go until you wouldn’t be freaked out by it?” 

“I know it sounds fucking nuts," Eddie grumbles, squirming further down into the covers to hide. "But my mom severely messed me up. Believe me, it was necessary to run a buttload of intense practice Richie-sex-fantasies if I wanted to enjoy it and not have a total meltdown about the germs on your hands when you tried to take my pants off.” 

“God, you’re a freak. I love you so goddamn much.” 

Again, Eddie rolls his eyes. But his cheeks are pink. “Hold on. I’m trying to tell you that I only got so far with the practice runs. I want to do more, uh, _things_ with you, in the future. But the thought just fucking paralyses me with anxiety at the moment. I’m working on it, I swear, but I just can’t do that yet.”

“Eds, shit…”

“And I don’t want you to think I’m just blue-balling you, or being selfish or ungrateful, or that I’m not crazy desperate to put my mouth on your dick one day, when my broken brain stops screaming at me that I’ll get syphilis of the mouth and die.” 

“Eddie, shut up a second.” Unceremoniously, Richie shoves Eddie onto his back, then leans over him, trying to organise the jumble of words he wants to say into an order that holds a semblance of meaning. “I’m gonna attempt to be serious for, like, thirty seconds.”

“Impossible,” Eddie says immediately. Richie flicks him on the nose. “Ow!”

“I just gave you three orgasms, Eddie Kaspbrak. _Three_. Shut up while I get my serious Voice on.” 

“Oh God, you’re calling it a Voice. There’s no hope. Make a stupid joke, I’m dying here.” Eddie grabs Richie’s hand and moves it to his bare chest. “Feel my heart.”

“Shh.” Richie rests his glasses on the tip of his nose and glares at Eddie through them, the way he has seen the librarian do the few times he’s set foot in her lair. Eddie does, reluctantly, shh. “That’s a whole lot to unpack in what you just said," Richie says slowly, "but the gist I’m getting is that you are, for some wild reason outside of either of our control, attracted to me. So attracted to me, even, that you built a personal programme of sexual rehabilitation for yourself, just so we could do stuff. Is that about right?” 

Eddie nods, cheeks a warm magenta. “But, like, I _wanted_ to," he stresses. "I always wanted to, since I realised how I felt about you. But I knew I’d freak out anyway if I tried. So I had to work on it by myself first.” 

“Okay,” Richie says on an exhale, stuffing the absolute crazed howl that is begging to burst from him thinking about Eddie 'working on' this particular problem. “In that case, I’m going to need you to never, ever again tell me you’re sorry for not wanting to do something you aren’t completely comfortable with.” 

The inner corners of Eddie’s eyebrows draw towards each other. “But that’s not fair. You do it to me-”

Lovingly, Richie seals a hand over Eddie’s mouth. “Could not give less of a fuck about that, Eds. I get to have sex with you. Do you know what that’s like for me? I get to see you naked. You let me put my _mouth_ on your dick, like multiple times! I don’t care that you don’t wanna do that to me, are you kidding? That is a _non-issue_. I just want to make you happy. Multiple orgasm kinda happy. It would be zero fun for me if you were grossed out trying to do something for me just ‘cause you thought you needed to reciprocate. No, it would be worse than zero fun. It would make me feel like utter crap. Please don’t let this worry you, okay? I get to have you, Eds. It doesn’t matter how. I’d be the luckiest fucker on the planet even if I just got to hold your hand.” 

Eddie is crying. Richie’s trying not to let it put him off his terrible, rambly, barely comprehensible speech, but inevitably he tapers off, unnerved by the tears. Eddie wipes them away furiously as they spill, but some of them escape anyway, falling to the quilt behind his head. 

“I’m not even…” he slides his bloodshot eyes away, swallowing hard. “I don’t get why you like me so much.” 

“Oh, the poetic ramblings I could subject you to right now,” Richie laments, flopping back down to lay beside him. 

His heart races; was that a little overboard? Eddie swallows again, both sets of his fingers meeting at chest level to toy with each other. “I’m so mean to you. Why do you like that?”

“Think it’s called sado-masochism?”

Eddie snorts. “Is that why the hair pulling works for you?” 

“You do know you literally ripped out my hair a minute ago.”

“Yeaaah. Sorry about that. You’re really good at blowjob-ing.” 

“I think the verb is blowing.” 

“Oh.” Eddie rolls onto his side, looking pink, shiny, and determined. “Thank you for being so sweet. I appreciated your serious Voice.”

“Can I go back to normal now?”

“God, please.” 

“Cool. Uh, I fucked your mom.” 

Eddie sighs, eyelids lowered. “Yeah, yeah.” 

Richie smiles, brushing his thumb over Eddie’s cheeks to wipe away the wetness. “Think someone’s overtired. Bath and bed time, Eddie bear?” 

“What?” Eddie asks, affronted. “Don’t be dumb, we’re doing you now.” 

He’s on top of Richie before he can respond, working a hand into the open fly of Richie’s pants, leaning down to kiss him. It’s a damp, salty kiss, but Richie is too distracted by the clever fingers steadily progressing into his underwear to care. 

“Woah, Eds, hold on, we don’t have to do this if you’re-”

“Hey, I like doing _this_ to you, moron. I just don’t wanna do anything else yet.”

“Um,” Richie squeaks as Eddie pulls his dick free of its material trappings, “o-okay, but just, uh, tell me if you wanna stop or-”

“Shut up and enjoy this,” Eddie commands, then promptly sets about slushifying Richie’s brain via one small but incredibly efficient hand on his cock. 

*

The inevitable cautionary chat with Bill happens on a Wednesday. Richie’s been expecting it ever since the incident in the woods with the jacket, but he’s somehow still caught off guard by Bill’s request to come over after school. Concerned he might throw up if confined to a small space, Richie suggests they go for a bike ride out to the quarry instead, and Bill agrees. Richie has detention every day until he's ninety-eight, so poor Bill has to wait for him in the library until he's done serving time. Richie dreads the incoming conversation for the whole hour, tipping back on his classroom chair, chewing the inside of his cheek while his heart impersonates a battering ram against his chest. 

Bill is waiting outside the classroom when Richie is finally released, falling into step with Richie like he happened to be strolling by at the exact moment Richie was freed. They've always been easy, casual friends, so the chatter isn't awkward as they head for the bike rack. Nor is it a strain to think of dumb jokes to crack about the gormless, obviously stoned checkout guy when they pick up a few snacks at the 7/11. It's shallow banter, but outwardly normal, and Richie can even relax into the familiarity of it as they take their time pedalling through the back roads of Derry in the sweet, afternoon sunshine. Because he’s the kind of guy that probably planned this whole conversation out in meticulous detail to ensure it has the right phrasing, Bill doesn’t dive into the matter until they’ve pulled up to their usual spot. They rest their bikes against a tree and walk through the dense shrubbery until the space opens up, revealing the glittering lake all those feet below. Richie sits on the edge of the rock they all usually leap off, his legs dangling over the water. If Eddie were here, he'd drag him back from the precipice, voice high and squawky with concern about accidental slips, and hitting the jutting rock face on the way down. 

Bill sits down beside him, equally unconcerned about these Eddie-imagined dangers. He snaps the cap on his Coke and takes a long drink before saying a word. It’s hard for Richie’s gay brain not to sneak a look at him this close, at the way his prominent Adams apple sinks and rises in the long column of his stubbled throat. In the past, Richie has often wondered why it wasn’t Bill Denborough, classic heartthrob, that he fixated on from such an early age. Bill's handsome looks are so undeniable that they lifted him out of Loser-dom as soon as he turned fifteen. To overlook them would be to destroy the entire system upon which high school status quos are based. He has that clean cut, jock thing going on that so many girls go mad for. Theoretically, Bill is the perfect crush-bait for a closeted gay outcast like Richie. But, for whatever reason, Bill's conventionally attractive face and body have never appealed to him. He has specific tastes, apparently. Short, snippy, brunettes with a runner’s frame and no problem smacking him in the head if he’s being a prat. Adorable, perpetually tense little hot-heads that flush head to toe if they get a kiss on the cheek. That's what gets him going. 

Richie lets out a disgustingly lovelorn sigh, lost in his volumes of Eddie-thoughts yet again. _Crap._ Bill is staring at him with a raised eyebrow. To yank himself out of his trance, Richie reaches for the bag of chips he’d bought and tears it open. Cheetos go everywhere, rolling off the edge of the rock and landing in the water below. 

“You’re a clever dude,” Bill says, inexplicably, flicking a Cheeto away, “you know why I wanted to spend some time with you alone, right?” 

“You want the secrets of my beauty routine,” Richie answers, feeling itchy and cornered already. “I told you this Billy, the curls are all natural. You can’t replicate this do with store bought conditioner-” 

“Come on, Richie,” Bill says, though he’s laughing a bit. “Can I just say my piece? You don’t have to say anything back if you don't wanna. But you can make jokes after I'm done if you need to.”

“Christ,” Richie mutters, then stuffs at least six Cheetos into his mouth. “Alright. Fire away, commander. Just try and aim for my softer, doughier parts.”

Richie keeps his eyes trained straight ahead, on the flutter of the water's shadow on the rock, as Bill begins to speak. “Okay. Look, obviously I saw you and Eddie, when you left the clubhouse after we all ditched the dance. I don’t know if you’re, like, dating him, or what. And I know Derry isn’t exactly… a safe haven for people like you-”

“People like me?” Richie can’t help asking. Anger, not necessarily Bill-directed, shoots through his arm veins, curling his fingers into fists. “The fuck’s that mean?” 

“Hey, I’m sorry. I don’t wanna offend you,” Bill says hurriedly, hands raised to chest height, “I’m new to this stuff. I don't know how to talk about it the right way. I guess I've always known that there were guys liked other guys, but… well, I’m like the rest of this tiny town. Dumb enough to think it didn’t happen here. But this is exactly why I wanted to talk to you one-on-one, Rich. I want you to know that, yeah, I was shocked, and... I’m kinda terrified for you, honestly. And Eddie. But even so, I’m in your corner. That’s what I’m trying to say, man. I would never want you to think I thought any differently about you, just ‘cause you’re, uh, whatever you are. With Eddie. Shit,” he says, taking a sip of Coke, “I’m usually so much better at the speeches.”

Richie snorts with laughter. His whole body is scorching hot from the humiliation of this subject. It doesn’t seem to matter that he knows Bill is trying his absolute hardest to be kind and tactful. This is still unbearable. 

_Is this life now? Forced to listen to straight people listing their excruciating assurances of gay acceptance?_

“Um. Thanks," Richie says at last. "I’m glad you’re... okay? With this. I know you didn’t suspect…uh. That must have been super weird. To see us like that.” 

“A little,” Bill admits. He plays with the ring pull on his can. “Felt kind of stupid after. For not seeing it sooner.”

Richie shrugs. "I thought I was being super obvious, a lot of the time. All the attention I gave him, above everyone else. But I was also doing literally everything in my power to keep it secret, so... not that stupid, really." 

“Do any of the other Losers know?” 

“I think Eddie might suspect something.” 

Bill snorts, pinching his nose to stop the soda escaping. “How did it even happen?" he asks, spluttering. It's a relief, hearing the laughter filtering back into the chat. Like a painkiller, chasing away the migraine. "Like, okay, I get that sometimes people are gay. But how did you guys ever find the courage to admit it to each other?” 

Richie sighs, resigning himself to an afternoon of queer education, and starts recounting that fateful night at Ben’s, all those weeks ago. 

*

That night, as soon as Richie forces his noodle-shaped body through Eddie’s window, he can tell immediately that something is off. Eddie is doing homework, as usual, on his bed, balancing the workbook on his drawn up knees. He gestures at Richie to close the window without speaking, barely glancing up. 

Cautiously, Richie approaches him. “Sup, Eds?” 

“What’s the biggest lake in the Great Lakes? Is it Michigan?” 

“Superior,” Richie replies. “You’re asking me for homework help? Fuck. Must be bad.”

“What must be bad?” Eddie asks distractedly as he crosses out ‘Michigan’ to write the correct answer. 

“Whatever’s up your ass,” Richie says as he flops down onto the bed. Eddie graces him with a briefly annoyed look, but it’s gone before Richie can analyse it for clues. “Here,” Richie tries, holding out his hand for the book, “let me do the rest for you. You’re gonna go cross-eyed from concentration. Then how will you appreciate the nuances of my gorgeous visage?”

“Well, you’re blind as a mole rat, so we’ll match,” Eddie says staunchly, but he hands over the book nonetheless. Richie takes it, choosing not to question the lack of resistance Eddie is putting up, and silently fills out the rest of his Geography answers. It takes him less than a minute. 

_What is the name of the largely unstoppable destructive force which can cause mass deforestation, widespread drought, suffocation, and other extreme damage to areas rich in plant and animal life?_

_Wildfire._

“You’re… very smart,” Eddie says, thoughtfully. “You’re gonna get into any college you wanna go to.”

Richie hands the book and pen back to him, warily. This whole scenario feels off-kilter. Eddie is behaving exactly like he never does, and it’s skewing Richie's perception, tipping the pink room to a forty-five degree angle. Richie's body begins leaning with it, moving into Eddie's personal bubble. He feels like… he feels like It is fucking with him, honestly. But they all have practice shoving those sorts of paranoid thoughts aside by now, so Richie attempts to do just that. 

_Pennywise is fucking dust at the bottom of a well_ , he reminds his brain. 

“I dunno,” Richie says slowly, eyes firmly fixed on Eddie’s non-clownish face, to cement the fact he's real. “I’m not sure I even wanna go to college, honestly.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, and the room cranks a few degrees straighter. “Of course you have to go to college, dipshit.”

“But you just said I’m a huge smarty-pants already,” Richie points out. “Can’t get too smart. My head'll explode.” 

Eddie plays with the corner of the page, rolling it up tight, then smoothing it out again. “You ever think about what you’ll do when you’re older?” 

“Course!” Richie tries for a wonky grin. “I’ve narrowed it down to the world’s first four-eyed daredevil stuntman or... candy bar flavor taste-tester.” Eddie doesn’t even crack a smile. “What about you? Fanny pack model?” 

At last, his mouth twitches. Richie’s heart gives a triumphant little hiccup. “I dunno. Sorry, this is a dumb conversation.” 

“S’not dumb,” Richie assures him, daring to shimmy right up close now. He rests a hand tentatively between his shoulder blades. “You worrying about the future?” 

Eddie sighs, shutting his work book and reaching over the bed to slot it into his backpack, ready for tomorrow. “I worry about everything.”

This, Richie knows. He also knows that the general worrying gets a lot worse when Eddie is actually troubled about something else. Something he’s trying not to think about. It takes skill, mastery, and tactical thinking to get him to reveal the true source of his frown on these occasions. Too sudden for Eddie to realise what’s happening, Richie pounces on him, pinning him to the mattress with his hands up by his head. Richie seats himself comfortably on Eddie’s stomach, merrily drinking down all the furious curse words Eddie is spitting up at him from below. 

“-what the fuck you think you’re doing, Trashmouth, I am not a fucking paper doll get the fucking shit off me-” 

“I’m gonna give you five seconds to tell me what’s wrong,” Richie says over the stream of abuse, “or I will tickle you until you talk.” 

“WHAT? Don’t you dare, you fucker-”

“Five,” Richie says calmly, and Eddie’s sentence breaks off. “Four…”

“Richie, I swear to God, if you even _think_ about tickling me-”

“Three…” 

Eddie kicks his legs in frustration, trying to wriggle his arms out of Richie’s hold. It’s pointless and they both know it; Eddie has been in this position too many times to believe he could get out of it now. 

“Two…” 

“Okay, okay! Fine!” Eddie cries, red-faced and livid. “I have to tell you something, okay?! And it’s shit, and I don’t want to tell you, but I have to and I was gonna do it nicely but you’re being an utter _asshole_ -”

Richie releases his wrists, sitting up abruptly. His heart has begun pounding uncontrollably, mind already racing ahead to the worst possible things Eddie could say. 

_I don’t want to do this anymore._

_I was just messing around when I said that stuff about loving you._

_I wanted to experiment with kissing you and now I’ve decided to try it on other people._

Eddie, of course, clocks the stricken look on Richie’s face at once, and his anger immediately dissolves into alarm. “Shit, not- not whatever you’re thinking,” he says hurriedly, hands smacking down onto Richie’s thighs. “I love you, et cetera. Nothing about that is any different.”

Cautiously, Richie feels the blood start to trickle back into his face. His breathing evens out, though the brief foray into panic-ville has seized his ability to form words for the time being. 

“It’s about your party,” Eddie says, head thunking back against the mattress. His eyes close, miserably. “My mom says I can’t go.” 

Richie waits for the follow-up sentence that never comes. “Pardon?” 

Eyes still squeezed shut, Eddie says: “It’s so fucking pathetic I know. I know! I’m an eighteen year old man. But she’s been extra crazy since the night of the dance. She thinks I caught the flu or something and that’s why I had to miss church the next day. I really think she suspects I was lying and is trying to catch me out, but whatever. The point is, there’s no way I can sneak out for a whole night, and definitely not to sleep over at yours. I’ve been trying to think of how to get around her, but I just think I’ve pushed her too far lately. I’m sorry, Rich. You know I-”

“Hold up,” Richie says, smushing his finger into Eddie’s lips. “This is what’s making you sad?” Eddie shrugs, sheepish, then pulls Richie’s hand away from his mouth, grimacing. Richie almost wants to laugh, it’s so cute. “Eds, baby, don’t worry about it. Daddy’ll sort this allll out.”

Eddie retches, presumably at the use of the word ‘daddy’, then says, “how the fuck will you-”

“Hey, I said leave it to me!” Richie declares, enjoying the sensation of power and dominance welling up in his chest. “You _shall_ go to the ball, Princess.” 

“I wish I had any faith in you whatsoever,” Eddie replies, but a glimmer of hope is just about visible in the corner of his eye, where it hadn’t been before. “Okay, let’s get the hideous kissing over with and then we’re going to sleep, I’m exhausted.”

Richie laughs, dipping his head down to press their lips together. For all his blustering, Eddie is the one who makes sure neither of them get more than five hours sleep. 

*

As Richie is slipping out of Eddie’s window at seven in the morning, Eddie asks if he can remind him of Beverly’s new phone number. Surprised, Richie pauses, hanging out of the window, pretending to look anguished. 

“You steppin’ out on me, Eds? With the jezebel of Jersey, Bev Marsh of all people?” 

Eddie shoves him in the shoulder, sending him almost to his death. “I just wanna talk to her about something.”

“Something Richie-related?” 

“Something _birthday_ related. So you can’t know, and don’t ask me.”

Richie pouts. “But-”

“Just bring her number to school,” Eddie insists, “please.” 

“Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say please before, this must be one helluva birthday surprise-”

“Please is the only word you’ll be able to choke out in a minute if you don’t shut your dumb mouth and do as I ask,” Eddie snaps, then pushes him all the way out of the window, not even a flash of apology crossing his face when Richie yelps and has to scrabble for purchase on the cladding. “Later, moron,” Eddie mouths through the window, then shuts his curtains. 


	13. Chapter 13

That evening, Richie is hovering outside his mother’s dressing room, rehearsing his plan of attack before knocking. He’s pacing the landing, too nervous about the importance of this going well to remain still, which is probably why his mom calls out: “Come in, won’t you? Before you wear the floorboards down.” 

Sucking in a full breath, Richie turns the handle of the door and steps inside. His mother is sat at her dressing table, hair rolled up in curlers, applying mascara to her long lashes. Richie had inherited those lashes, unlike Bertie, whose are so fair it looks as though she burned them off in an accident with matches. 

Maggie Tozier glances up at her son, mascara wand hovering at cheek height. “Richie, darling,” she says blandly, “is everything alright?”

“Actually, mom,” Richie says, stepping forwards, hands clasped in front of him, “I wanted to ask you for a favour.” 

She smiles, wanly, and lets her eyes drift back to her reflection. “Whatever it is, sweetheart, ask your father. He’s got the cheque book.” 

“No,” Richie says, frustration making the word come out more bluntly than he intends. She looks round again, one eyebrow arched. “It’s not money. Look, um, I’m sure you don’t remember, but my birthday is coming up. So, the way I see it, I can ask you to do one thing for me, and we can pretend you put any actual effort into getting me something, and didn't forget me, again.”

She shoots him a disapproving look. “Richie, I’m your mother. Of course I remember your birthday.”

“When is it, then?” Richie asks, skin prickling. “When’s my birthday? I’ll leave right now if you can tell me the date.”

She purses her lips, saying nothing, and goes back to applying the mascara. 

Richie sighs heavily, but he thinks he sees her reflection flash a brief, guilty look his way. It’s gone just as fast. “So," Richie bolsters on, "I’m just gonna ask. And I’d appreciate it if you’d respect me enough, not as a son, but as a nearly-eighteen-year-old adult, to not ask questions and just do this one thing for me.”

She still says nothing. Her lashes must be so cakey at this point that they’re hard to keep open. 

“My friend Eddie, who was here the other night, wants to come to my birthday party,” Richie explains. Maggie raises her eyebrows at the word ‘party’, having of course heard nothing about it since Richie never tells his parents this sort of thing. They’re rarely around to care, so there’s usually no point. “But his crazy mom is stopping him from going. I think you’d remember her. When we were little she used to drop Eddie round for playdates with bags of pills and bandaids and inhalers.”

Maggie replaces the cap of the mascara, twisting it thoughtfully. “Yes, I remember. Sonia, wasn’t it? An unstable, anxious sort of woman. She bowed at me, once. I found it most perplexing.” 

“Yeah, that’s why I wanted to ask you to help me, specifically,” Richie says, glad that he doesn’t have to try and explain Sonia’s mostly unexplainable behaviour on top of everything. “She's always been weirdly reverent of you. Sometimes I think it’s the only reason she lets Eddie associate with me, because she sees you as some, like, esteemed Lady of the Manor.”

Maggie turns towards him on her stool, legs folded neatly together, now listening intently. “I don’t suppose you do anything to help project that image of the Toziers to our friends and neighbours?” 

“I don’t suppose I do,” Richie mocks in her pretentious, plummy voice, eyes rolling skyward. “Look, it’s my birthday. You haven’t gotten me a real present for the last four years. This is what I want. Will you help me?” 

Maggie regards him with a tinge of sadness, then nods, quirking a smile. “I’m to help you convince your friend’s mother that he should be allowed to come to your party?”

“Yes,” Richie breathes, hope stirring in his stomach; he can barely believe this is all working out. He had several back-up arguments stored, but his mother is being remarkably understanding. “Yes, that’s exactly right.”

“Hmm,” she says, standing up. The glossy folds of her silk nightgown cascade to the floor. “This boy must be important to you. For you to go to such lengths to have him at your party.”

Blindsided, Richie can’t help the seize of his facial muscles. Maggie definitely clocks the reaction, judging by the set of her smile. 

“He’s… my best friend,” Richie manages to get out. He backs up, hand stretched behind him, searching for the door handle. “Tomorrow morning work okay? We can go in your car, I’ll direct you to his house.”

“Fine,” Maggie says, watching him go. “Richie?” 

“Mm?” 

She hesitates, running her gaze over him. As if she’s only now seeing him as a person in his own right. Her fingers twitch, like she’s thinking of reaching out. “Happy near birthday, darling.”

“Thanks,” Richie mumbles, then bolts out of the door.

*

When Richie makes it downstairs the following morning, his mother is, shockingly, already sat waiting for him in an antique chair with wide, flat arms that has been in the front hall by the door for all the years Richie can remember, and has never, to his knowledge, been sat in. On one of the weird arms rests a teacup filled with black coffee. In his mother’s hand is a newspaper, which she reads calmly, until Richie makes it to the bottom stair. She places it neatly down on her lap. 

“Good morning,” she says, sharp eyes roving over his outfit. 

She must notice, somewhat humiliatingly, that Richie has dressed in his nice clothes, ones that she’s bought for him to go to family events and funerals. Starchy shirt and un-creased, hole-less pants. He’s scrubbed his face and wrestled a comb through his hair too. She says nothing however, as usual, and for once Richie is glad she has so little to say to him. He’s glad to note that she’s also made an effort to look smart, not that she knows how to _not_ make an effort, probably. She’s wearing a floor-length skirt in a dusty rose colour, and a high-necked blouse with pearl buttons. She looks a bit like she stepped through a time vortex from the Victorian-era, but it works for her nonetheless. Her slight frame and ageless good looks mean that she can pull off a lot of things that would seem stupid on other women her age.

“Morning,” Richie mumbles. He deliberately leaves off the ‘good’. “Shall we go?” 

“If you’re ready,” she replies, taking a final sip of her coffee before standing. She places the newspaper on the chair and offers her hand to him. He stares at it, perplexed, before realising he’s being asked to take it. It feels very odd, fitting their palms together, letting their joined hands swing between them as they move to the door. He tries to remember a time in his childhood where he’d walked out of this house holding hands with his mom, and can’t. “It’s a lovely day,” Maggie remarks as Richie pulls the door closed behind them. “It will be nice to spend some time with you this morning.” 

“Yeah,” Richie says vaguely. 

He’s not sure whether he agrees or not. Spending quality time with his mother is such an alien concept that he has no clue whether it would be enjoyable. What do they even have in common, aside from shared ancestry? They walk in silence to her car - a sleek, silver convertible that attracts a lot of attention around town. Richie hops into the passenger seat without opening the door and Maggie laughs at him. _Laughs_. Richie can’t be sure, of course, but he doesn’t think he’s ever made her laugh before. 

“We could listen to the radio,” Maggie offers as she turns the key in the ignition. Richie’s used to Bev’s truck’s ragged snarl, but this car barely makes a murmur as it rouses from its slumber. 

He shrugs. “Sure.”

She turns a dial, and a pop song Richie vaguely recognises comes on. He drums his fingers to the beat on the windowsill, turning to look at the houses on the opposite side of the road as his mother adjusts the rearview mirror, the seat, the gear stick. When they creep along the street, Maggie turns to him, braking gently at the junction. 

“Which way, honey? To your _best_ friend’s house?” 

The stressed word would almost be unnoticeable, if Richie didn’t recognise his own expression of barely concealed amusement in his mother’s face. He flushes, bad, and stares straight ahead to avoid her seeing. 

“Uh, l-left. Then left again. It’s on the way to the old quarry,” Richie says, swallowing. 

“Oh yes,” Maggie mutters, turning left. They don’t speak again for the rest of the drive. 

Eddie’s mom is outside on the porch, listening to a slow, terrible jazz song on her portable radio. At first, Richie can tell Sonia doesn’t recognise either of them, or the car. She narrows her eyes at them, leaning forward in her deck chair, primed to waddle back indoors to warn the neighbourhood watch. Then, Richie’s mom opens the door of the car, her long skirt spilling out, silk whipped by the breeze, as she neatly steps onto the tarmac. It’s pretty funny to watch how Sonia’s face morphs from suspicion to a mortified sort of horror as the recognition sets in, but Richie keeps his reaction in check, hiding a chuckle in a well-timed cough into his fist. Sonia struggles up from the chair with considerable difficulty; by the time she’s standing, Richie and his mom are climbing the steps to the porch. 

“Sonia, how lovely to see you,” Richie’s mom greets in her schmooziest voice. “You’re looking so well.” 

“Mrs Tozier!” Sonia huffs, one hand braced on a supporting beam. “What a surprise- I- I’m afraid I haven’t much to offer you in terms of refreshments, but please do come in, I-”

She stops short, her eyes clapping onto Richie, who gives her his widest, toothiest grin and a little wave. It looks painful, how she swallows back her usual derogatory comment, but she manages, turning her attention back to Maggie, and makes a grand gesture with her hand to welcome them inside. Maggie leads the way with a smile, Richie behind her. Sonia keeps so close at his heels that Richie can smell her awful cheap perfume, but he doesn’t let himself do anything as dumb as he usually would, like fake-gag, or pinch his nose. He just follows his mom into the living room, where he’s seen Sonia crammed into her recliner armchair in front of the telly so many times. 

Maggie waits, in the centre of the cluttered room, her gaze politely entreating. “May we sit down?” 

“Of course, of course!” Sonia cries, gesturing to the hideous white pleather sofa. Maggie smiles gratefully, and steers Richie to the sofa as well. They both have to remove several stacks of magazines to make room. Richie dumps them a shade too roughly on the end table, and doesn’t miss Sonia’s narrowed eye. Sonia takes her usual armchair, but perches on the very end of it, back straight, eyes so wide they could fall out of their sockets. “Might I get you some tea, Mrs Tozier? Or- or perhaps a coffee? It’s early, isn’t it? Gosh, you must be parched- Eddie! Eddie, love! Mommy needs you!”

Maggie slides a discreet glance at Richie, one that clearly reads _‘holy fucking shit’_ in whatever polite, passive-aggressive way his mother would have phrased the sentiment. At once, Eddie’s feet patter against the stairs, light and quick; Richie’s heart immediately lurches into an embarrassing drumroll of palpitations. 

“Yes, mama?” 

Richie can’t see him, as his back is to the stairs, but he hears the quiet inhale of surprise all the same. He turns, unable to help himself, and catches Eddie’s distressed stare. Because Richie is Richie, he winks, and the shock of it seems to propel Eddie down the remaining few stairs. 

“Eddie-bear, we have guests," Sonia tells him hurriedly, "go and put the coffee on for Mrs Tozier, there’s a good boy. Remember to be careful you don’t burn yourself with the hot water.”

Eddie’s nervous swallow is almost deafening. He darts a look at Richie, quickly taking in the neat appearance. Maggie shoots Eddie a kind smile, which is unexpected, but good of her. Eddie can't seem to return it though, so he turns back to his mother.

“Yes, ma,” he mumbles before scurrying off to the kitchen. 

“Now, the reason we’re here, Sonia,” Maggie begins, at last. Richie has never wanted to hug his mother so much. She’s doing an impeccable job. Playing the imposing, reserved, slightly bitchy upper-class housewife with perfect ease. Sonia nods emphatically, leaning in to hang on her every word. “As you know, your lovely son and my darling Richie are close friends. And of course, Richie’s birthday is…” she pauses, shifting, “...on the horizon.”

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Richie coughs loud, muttering, “Saturday.” 

Maggie smiles serenely. “On Saturday. We’ve decided to throw him a party, as it’s such an important age.”

“Y-yes,” Sonia replies, nodding. “I believe Eddie mentioned-” 

“And of course, Richie would love nothing more than for Eddie to join us in celebration,” Maggie interrupts smoothly. “I’ve heard that perhaps you were concerned, as any mother would be, that the party would be unsuitable for someone with Eddie’s… special sensitivities. So I’ve come here this morning to reassure you.” 

A new found sense of admiration floods Richie head to toe, watching his mother effortlessly manipulate this terrible woman, bending her huge frame so skillfully around her pinky finger. He badly hopes he inherited some of these masterful, cunning tactics along with those killer lashes. 

“Well, yes,” Sonia admits, cheeks pink. “Eddie isn’t as resilient as other boys his age, you know. He has several health problems. A weak immune system. Asthma… why, only the other day he was too sick to come to church the morning after he went out with his friends for a dance-”

“I wasn’t sick, ma,” Eddie replies tartly, re-entering the room with a large, heavily-laden tray in his hands. Without thinking about it, Richie leaps up to help him with it, taking the tray from him and setting it down on the coffee table. Eddie looks embarrassed, but doesn’t stop him. He won’t meet Richie’s eye. “I was just tired. Partly because we were arguing about me going to the dance for so long.”

Sonia sighs, shaking her head. “Eddie-bear, you know you’re sensitive, just like Mrs Tozier says-”

“What I’m _trying_ to say,” Maggie interrupts before that attempt to recruit her into the madness can get anywhere, “is that Eddie is in no danger whatsoever at Richie’s birthday party.” She leans forward to pour the milk into the cups. Sonia looks horrified that she’s stooping to the level of the tea maid, gesturing for Eddie to intervene and do it for her, but Eddie, to Richie’s delight, pretends not to notice her frantic miming, and flops cross-legged to the floor. “My husband, Went,” Maggie continues as she pours, “will be supervising the whole event. Have you met my husband, Mrs Kaspbrak?” 

“Goodness!” Sonia exclaims, one hand settling over her flushed bosom. “No, I haven’t. But I know of him, of course. A doctor, works out in the city, doesn’t he?”

“That’s right. He’s the head of a sizeable dental practice up there,” Maggie says casually, handing out a cup to Sonia. As she takes it, Sonia’s hand is trembling. 

“Thank you,” she says with a small bow of the head. Richie can’t help it, he catches Eddie’s eye and smirks, discreetly imitating the bow. Eddie reaches for his glass of water in order to disguise his answering smile. “I imagine your husband must be a very capable, smart man, Mrs Tozier,” Sonia says, her voice fluttering, “but Eddie’s needs are-”

“Eddie has been round to our house many times, Mrs Kaspbrak,” Richie’s mom says. She takes a sip of her coffee, and doesn’t grimace, though she famously detests anything that hasn’t been pressed in a cafetière. “He’s more than familiar with myself, my husband, and the way we run the household. Aren’t you, dear?”

Maggie turns to address Eddie, who balks, going faintly scarlet. “Oh. Yeah. Yes, I’ve… I’ve been to Richie’s- I mean, Mrs Tozier’s a lot, ma. There’s nothing dangerous there.”

“But Eddie, you’re sick-”

“I’m not sick!” Eddie protests, voice high, at which point Richie senses the time has arisen to jump in.

“I’ll make sure Eddie is well looked after, Mrs K,” he says, in his most parent-approved Voice. “No strenuous activity, a good night’s sleep. Just a few good old-fashioned japes with his close friends. And straight back in the morning fresh as a daisy, right mom?” 

Maggie swivels her speculative eyes onto him, amusedly. “Yes, dear. Eddie will be well looked after. I’m sure that Mrs Kaspbrak can allow for that, now that we’ve outlined the parameters. What do you think, Sonia?” 

Eddie’s mom shrinks back into her armchair, well and truly cornered. The beaming smile Eddie sends Richie’s way is as soft and sweet as warm treacle. 

On the drive back home, Richie sings along to the radio, despite not knowing the song. He rests his feet on the dashboard, revelling in the fact that his mom doesn’t even try to tell him off for it, as he thought she would. He’s not sure, in hindsight, why he believed she would care about such nonsense. It’s clear that she’s above that kind of pedantry. 

She looks over at him, smiling because he’s smiling. “Was that the outcome you had in mind, darling?” 

“You’re a rockstar, mom.” Richie grins at her, head lolling back against the seat. “Thank you.”

“He’s very sweet,” Maggie says, head slightly tilted, “your Eddie.”

Richie’s heart jumps up into his throat, jamming up his airway, but he swallows hard, forcing it back into place. “Yeah,” he mutters, almost lost in the wind rushing past the car, “he’s the best.”

*

On Friday, Richie’s actual birthday, he’s sauntering down the steps out of school after detention when he spots a familiar faded red truck idling in the parking lot. Out of its window poke two slender, pale legs, with clunky hot-pink boots on the feet. He almost runs towards it, delighted. As he approaches, he sees a thin veil of smoke dancing out into the sky. 

“You stalking me, Ms Marsh?” Richie hollers, yanking open the driver door. Her legs recoil from the window, and she chucks her cigarette, grinning wide. Once the door is open, she leaps out, arms outstretched, and pulls him into a hug. “I’m calling the police,” Richie says, muffled, into her shoulder. 

“Happy birthday, mophead,” she says, full of fondness, and ruffles his hair when she pulls away. “Had to come see you before I head over to Ben’s. Hop in, let’s get you a birthday ice cream and go smoke a spliff.” 

“Marry me,” Richie says, already walking round to the passenger side. 

“Okay, but you’re breaking the news to Eddie and Ben.” 

“Fine. You gotta sixty-nine me on the wedding night, though.” 

She pulls a face, slamming the driver’s side door closed as she slots back behind the wheel. Richie’s mouth opens, affronted by her disgust. They mosey on through Derry, pausing in town outside the ice cream parlour, where Bev hops out to buy them both a double scoop of mint choc chip and blackberry - their unanimously agreed favourite. She doesn’t say a thing about them eating the treats in her car; perhaps it’s just because Richie spends so much time around a clean freak, but it feels fantastically reckless to let the ice cream drip all over his hands and onto the fabric of the seat. 

They drive out to the kissing bridge, then further, into the farmlands, where Bev takes a random dirt track towards the forest, and parks just beyond the first line of trees. There they crunch the remains of their cones, then lick the stickiness from their fingers, chatting about all the things they’ve missed in each other's lives since they last spoke. Richie recounts the whole scene with his and Eddie’s moms, and Bev leans her head back to cackle, asking for vivid descriptions of Sonia’ mortified face. 

“So, Eddie rang me,” Bev says after a while, eyebrows peaked. 

“Oh,” Richie says, trying to suppress his extreme curiosity, “yeah. He asked me for your number. Wouldn’t say why.” 

“He’s got a surprise planned,” Bev tells him. “For your birthday.”

“He threw a terribly wrapped bundle of comic books at my head this morning,” Richie says, gratefully accepting the spliff she hands him. The doors of the truck are flung wide open, but it’s still boiling, so they wordlessly step out, moving into the truck bed to sprawl out, heads together, staring up at the blank sky. “And a mixtape called ‘Songs for Richie’.”

“Oh my God,” Bev says, laughing delightedly. “A mixtape?” 

“Yeah. It’s the sappiest, lamest thing you ever heard. He couldn’t even look at me when he gave it to me. It’s all my favourite songs, and his favourite songs, and a bunch of songs that remind him of me.” Richie takes a deep inhale, letting the weed coax his gooiest feelings into the spotlight. “Obviously I will be listening to it every day on repeat for the rest of my miserable life, sobbing into my pillow like the smitten Loser I am.” 

“Fuck,” Bev says, which is just exactly how Richie feels about the situation. She holds out her hand for the joint; his hand moves through treacle to pass it to her. “You’re so fucked,” she giggles, and he laughs along. “It’s cute though.” 

“Ugh. I guess. So, what’s the big secret surprise?” Richie asks. “I thought the tape was the present.” 

Bev smiles as she drags the smoke into her lungs. “Nah. He’s got plans.”

“Oh yeah?” Richie’s mind spins, too fast, trying to land on something that makes sense. “I got nothing.”

“I’m not telling you,” Bev says, handing the joint back. “He’s very trusting of my silence.” 

“You’re the worst,” Richie complains. “I thought we were tight, Marsh.”

“I like your boyfriend more now, sorry. He’s nicer to me.” 

Richie would normally fire back some kind of indignant reply, probably. But his mind catches on the word Bev so casually flung out to describe Eddie, in relation to him. He sucks on the joint, so hard and long that Bev tuts at him for not following weed-sharing etiquette, and snatches it off him for her share. 

“Why’re you freaking out?” she asks, sensing his panic at once. “You’re in love with each other. Isn’t admitting that scarier than just… calling him what he basically is?” 

“It’s different,” Richie says. He feels like this conversation is happening in one room, and the thoughts about Eddie and his relationship are happening in another. “It’s not like you and Ben. You can just tell everyone you’re dating and nobody would mind.”

“Except Bill.”

“Yeah, except Bill,” Richie allows. “And possibly a hoard of other heavily tanned New _Joisey_ admirers you’ve got going on.” 

“There may be one or two, but they’re just pawns,” she says, grinning wickedly. “I can’t believe you’ve told Eddie you’re in love with him but you haven’t asked him to be your boyfriend.”

“Fuck you. Telling him I love him was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done, including that time I smacked a murderous clown with a baseball bat. But still, it was still just _him_ I had to tell. Calling him my boyfriend implies that I have to tell other people.”

She shrugs. “Not necessarily.”

Richie doesn’t reply straight away, thinking hard. “What’s the point, then? If we’re just keeping it to ourselves?” 

“I’m not sure. Eddie might like it,” she suggests. “To know you want that. Something real. Committed. He strikes me as the kind of guy that would appreciate knowing exactly how you feel.” 

Richie turns to face her, eyes tracking the smoke billowing from her lips. “Is this what you guys talked about on the phone?” 

“No.” She sighs, silver spilling from her perfect pink lips. “But Ben has been pressing this lately. I guess it’s on my mind.” 

“He wants you to be his girlfriend?” 

“Sounds so dumb,” Bev says. Richie takes the final stub of the joint from her, pulling the last of the cannabis into his lungs before throwing it out of the truck. “I wish we could just go on as we are, in a way. But in another way, I want him to be my boyfriend too. I want everyone to know it. I want to call him that in front of slimy guys, and strangers, and my dad.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, knowing exactly what she means. “I wish I could do those things with Eddie. But at the same time, it’s like I would rather the ground swallow me up whole if anyone even sniffed the truth about us.” He pauses, letting the weighted silence stretch. “Bill found out about us, by the way,” he says, blasé. “My heart gave out several times during his well-meaning, 'gay is ok' pep talk.”

She sits up, alarmed. “Shit! Bill knows? And you’re just telling me now?” 

“No offense, but you’re never here to tell.” 

She hits him in the shoulder, and he feels the pain ping through him after a four second delay. “I have a phone! God, Rich. He’s the straightest of all of us. Except for maybe Ben. How did he react?” 

“I don’t think he’s as straight as all that,” Richie says, frowning. “He and Mike get pretty close when they’re drunk or high.” 

She snorts, nudging him with her foot. “Rich. Tell me. What did he say?” 

He lets the whole tedious conversation he had with Bill fall out of his mouth, slurred and probably heavily edited by the weed. She still listens, silent and concentrated, to every word. 

“Wow,” she says when he’s done. “A good guy.”

“Yeah.” 

“So, that’s five of us now that know.” 

“Two left.” 

“Are you gonna tell Stan and Mike?”

Richie is ashamed to say that he genuinely hasn’t thought about it. “Do you think I should?”

“I think you should talk to Eddie.”

“Ugh,” Richie jokes. “That weirdo?” 

Unexpectedly, Bev grabs him by the arm and tugs, pulling him up into a hug. Richie sort of flops against her, limbs leaden from the strong joint, but it’s nice to just embrace, loosely, the poignance of the moment dancing around them in the waning light. 

“Eddie’s a lucky boy,” she says at some point, her cheek resting against his hair. 

“So is ol’ Benzo,” Richie replies. 

They don’t need to move, because nobody knows or cares that they’re here, so they don’t. Not for a few hours at least. Bev rolls another joint even though she’s saying she shouldn’t while she does it, making the excuse that it’s Richie’s birthday. She switches on the truck radio while Richie smokes it in half, and once the weed is gone, they get out to dance in the overgrown field to Bev’s favourite song. 

Richie dips her low, too low, and she falls on her ass, so they screech laughter into the trees, and forget everything until night falls around them. Then Bev drives them home, through the shadowed streets they rode through on rusty bikes as children; she drops him at Eddie’s without asking, and Richie kisses her soft, smoky cheek before leaping out of the truck to sneak in his maybe-boyfriend’s window. 

“See you tomorrow for the party of the year,” he calls quietly, and then, softer, “love you, Marshmallow.”

“Love you too, Trashmouth. Happy birthday.” 

*

The party begins when Eddie arrives, truthfully. He brings an overnight bag half the size of his body, and when Richie asks him about it, he just says, “Mom.” And dumps it on the floor of Richie’s bedroom. 

“You’re the first one here, Spagheds,” Richie informs him excitably. He waggles his eyebrows, sprawled across his bed. “What shall we do to pass the time until our friends arrive?”

The look Eddie gives him is wonderfully withering. “You can get me a drink, asshole.” 

“Wow, Eddie,” Richie gasps, jumping up at once, taking him by the hand and leading out of the room, “I’d no idea that your drug addiction extended to alcohol. Asking me to enable you in this regard is troubling, but as it’s a special occasion-”

“Richie, I swear to God. I’ve spent the last four hours arguing my fucking brains out with mom to let me come just so you won’t blub that I miss your birthday party. Get me a fucking drink, I deserve it.” 

Richie turns on the middle landing stair, making Eddie bump into him, and presses their lips together. Eddie makes a muffled noise of annoyance at first, then sinks into it, sighing into Richie’s mouth. When Richie pulls back, quicker than usual given that another Tozier could easily walk past and see them, Eddie looks mellowed. 

“I’m very glad you fought your way over here,” Richie tells him sincerely. “Now what’s your drink, hot stuff?”

“I’ve no idea,” Eddie confesses, a pleasing pink on top of the gloweriness, now allowing himself to be pulled downstairs without a word. “You know what I like. Give me something I’m least likely to gag on.” 

“Maybe later,” Richie quips, winking at him as he walks them into the kitchen. “For now, how about a spiced rum and coke? You didn’t hate the stuff we had on the night of the dance, right?” 

Eddie is blushing hard, which is odd, considering Richie hadn’t thought of the joke as particularly distasteful, considering his usual repertoire. Still, he’s in a great mood, alone with Eddie, about to have an awesome night with his favourite people, so he slips on a Bartender Voice, throwing a rag over his shoulder as he pours Eddie’s drink, and slides it to him across the breakfast bar. He lifts his own cup in a self-toast. 

“To me,” Richie declares, grinning. 

“To your enormous head,” Eddie says, lifting his own cup before taking a long drink. He smacks his lips afterwards, inspecting the cup of brown liquid. “Not... awful, I guess. What’re you drinking?”

Richie slides his cup over to Eddie, leaning over the bar on his elbows to watch him take a sip. He does so, suspiciously, and frowns when he lowers the cup. 

“Is this just soda?” 

“Gotta pace myself,” Richie says with a wink. “I’m planning on eating at least two pot brownies, and as a veteran of the dreaded [whitey](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whitey_\(drugs\)), I’m opting for a mostly dry high. No more than three drinks all night long.” 

Eddie nods, retreating into his head in a calculating way that Richie doesn’t understand, but is still adorable. They head back to the lounge to bicker a bit about the vinyls Richie has selected to play over the course of the evening on his dad's ostentatious gramophone. Eddie’s music taste is unfortunate, but Richie does allow for a few of his inputs because he’s a sucker for that insistent little pout. Soon enough, the doorbell rings. Richie gets up from where he’s got Eddie pinned to the floor, wrestling a Beatles vinyl out of his hands because, okay, there’s a limit to his leniency. 

He hurls the vinyl into the wall as he crosses to the front hall, ignoring Eddie’s shrieks about damaging the playback. At the door are Bill, Audra, Stan and Mike. They barrel straight past him, mid-chatter. Audra at least has the decency to call out a “happy birthday”. 

They dump their hastily wrapped gifts onto a side table, but Stan immediately snags the half-full bottle of gin Bill has brought, thoughtfully presented with a stick-on bow, and waggles it at Richie, asking, “you got any mixers, Rich?” 

Richie leads them all into the kitchen, setting about making everyone a drink in his bartender persona while they show a goggle-eyed Audra around his obnoxiously opulent house. Bill stands in front of the fridge with his arms spread wide, demonstrating its ridiculous hugeness. Mike flings open cupboards at random, exclaiming the prices of various organic food items that Richie has never even touched. 

“Shit, you’re a rich kid,” Audra announces, triumphant, when Richie hands her a gin and juice. 

Eddie catches his eye, smiling amusedly at Richie’s obvious embarrassment. “His deepest, darkest secret.”

“Is that right?” Bill asks dryly, taking a sip of his gin and tonic, and Eddie flushes. 

The doorbell rings again, providing a welcome excuse for Richie to exit this conversation. Beverly lunges at him as soon as the door is open, knocking Richie straight on his ass. Ben pulls both of them up, sending an apologetic look his way. 

“Sorry,” Ben says, “she’s had some Pimms already.” 

Bev scoffs, then snatches the baking tray he’s holding, covered over with tin foil. Richie’s eyes go wide, the grin spreading over his mouth. She laughs at his expression, nodding emphatically. “Yeah, yeah. I follow through on a promise, four-eyes.” 

She marches into the lounge, brandishing the brownies, peeling off the tin foil as she goes, throwing it in a ball over her shoulder. She leaves a delicious trail of cocoa-sweetened weed in her wake. She seems to remember her way to the kitchen, so Richie just stands with Ben in the door to the lounge, watching on in admiration as she strides through the door shouting, “who asked for sugary delinquency?!” 

“Quite the woman you have there, Benjie,” Richie comments. 

Ben sighs around a tired smile. “There’s so much of her,” he says, eyes crinkled. “So much. I worry I won’t be able to love all of her, how she deserves. That I won’t be enough.” 

"Ahh, a classic, useless Ben-worry. Just be really generous in the bedroom,” Richie suggests, and Ben laughs, reddening. “Or try not fretting as much. You guys are perfect. She loves you, y’know.” 

Ben fixes him with a surprised stare, and Richie wonders if, still, Bev hasn’t told him this herself. 

“You and her talk, right?” 

“In between the drug-smoking, ya.”

Ben nods, thoughtfully. Then, he hands over a present. It’s wrapped in old Derry newspapers, secured with parcel string tied in a clumsy bow. “Bev got you the brownies,” Ben explains, a little sheepishly, “this is from me.” 

“Benjamin!” Richie exclaims, “I’m touched! A gift from Handsome Hanscom himself.”

Ben pulls him into his side for one of those straight-guy half-hugs. “I know she finds it hard, all this… romantic stuff,” he mumbles just above Richie’s ear. “And I know you help her with it. So. It's my way of saying thanks. Happy Birthday, Trashmouth.”

When he pulls away, Richie has to fight down the urge to ruin the moment with some stupid joke. He manages, but only by giving a weird thumbs up, making Ben roll his eyes, and head for the kitchen after his girl. Left alone in the lounge with a present addressed to him, Richie cannot be stopped from tearing it open, so he does, violently, with no concern for the wrapping effort. 

His heart pangs gently as he unfolds the framed polaroid. He only vaguely remembers taking it on Ben's old camera, but it's obvious when it was. Eddie drowns in Richie’s ugly sweater, beaming beneath Richie’s arm. Bev is on Richie’s other side, Ben leaning into Eddie, tongue sticking out. They’re squeezed into the bed of Bev’s truck, Richie's duvet over their legs, lit up neon purple and pink from the buzzing sign of the diner towering over their heads. Richie laughs at it quietly; they all look so stoned. He flips it over, to see if there's a hook so he could hang it on his wall, and sees instead that Ben has taped a key to the back, beneath a taped small note. 

_‘Had a lock installed on the clubhouse door. Please never tell me what you two do in that hammock.’_

Richie swallows an instinctive surge of mortification. There’s no reason to feel shame or guilt about Ben so obviously insinuating all that he knows about he and Eddie. Ben is lovely, and considerate, and incredibly, selflessly kind. He’s giving them a place to be together, alone, because he knows that those places are rare. It’s one of the most thoughtful presents Richie has ever received, honestly. Even grosser than Eddie's disgustingly soppy mixtape. To be safe, because not everyone is guaranteed to be as tooth-rottingly sweet as Ben, Richie tucks the frame in between the couch cushions, out of sight, and dries his eyes on a pillow before joining the others, and beginning the night ahead. 

*

Bev forgot to bring candles, so she plates up a centre piece of brownie and presents it to Richie with a lit cigarette sticking out of the top. The others all sing Happy Birthday, which is touching, even though Richie is physically unable to blow out the ‘candle’. Bev smokes the cigarette anyway, half leaning out of the French Windows, so the smoke detector won’t blare. Eddie is horrified when Richie eats the whole brownie in two bites; Richie chases him around the kitchen with his mouth full threatening to spew crumbs on him, making him shriek, which is a pretty damn entertaining way to wait for the pot to kick in. 

It’s a Losers party, so no cool party activities are expected. Richie puts on his favourite albums, they sit around on Richie’s plush, too-big sofas, eating the junk food Richie had graciously bought for the night, and drink until they feel brave enough to start dancing and suggesting outlandishly titillating games. 

“Spin the bottle!” Riche throws into the mix, and Eddie discreetly but harshly elbows him in the ribs. 

“Truth or dare,” Bev says, because she adores that game; Ben pales at the suggestion, remembering last time. 

“What about the one we played on the night of the dance?” Mike asks. “That was pretty fun.” 

Eddie twitches at Richie’s side. He’s being oddly quiet, pasting a stare onto Richie’s face at nearly all times, and denying it profusely whenever Richie points out how creepy it is. There’s something up with him, Richie realises, feeling guilty that he hadn’t noticed sooner. Then, his attention is hauled back by Mike, loudly declaring that, as the birthday boy, he has to go first. He’ll have to wait to ask Eddie what’s wrong, he decides. 

But as Richie announces his question to the rest of the group - _“which one of us is most likely to have a criminal record for flashing in ten years?”_ \- Bev creeps out from under Ben’s arm, sneaks round to the end of the sofa, and pulls Eddie up, taking him with her towards the kitchen. Richie stares after them, astounded, but nobody else seems to give a damn. The others are arguing about the merits of their answer to his question, so he can’t just up and leave. He waits, leg jiggling, trying to weigh in with his own hilarious inputs while they make up their minds. Eventually, Richie can’t stand it, too tense at the thought of what his two favourite people could possibly be discussing, in private, to stay calm. He jumps to his feet, hands raised like a conductor.

“Silence! Time is up, comrades. It is time to make your final judgements. On the count of three, point to your chosen person. 1… 2… 3!” 

Audra, Bill, Stan, and Mike all point to Richie. Ben, out of solidarity, one would assume, points to Mike. “Wow-ee!” Richie exclaims, feigning offence. “Happy fuckin’ birthday Richie, I see how it is. Maybe I’ll flash you all now, get started on my legacy!” 

He lifts the hem of his shirt, a tease, and they all rear back in horror, shouting at him to stop, as if he really would just strip off at ten-thirty on a Saturday, in front of his closest pals. His dad is supposedly around here somewhere, 'supervising', although Richie hasn't seen him. 

“Relax, prudes,” he says to a room of shielded eyes, “this bod is a privilege only a select few are lucky enough to glimpse. "I’ll, uh, be right back,” he adds, grabbing his empty cup. “Carry on without me, I’ll catch up.” 

He bounds to the kitchen door, heart rapidly firing a spray of anxiety bullets, all of which ricochet off his ribs, bouncing around in his chest. He slows down once he walks into the kitchen in a vain attempt to reduce his wild-eyed appearance. Bev and Eddie look up from where they’re perched on separate stools in front of the breakfast bar, turned towards each other, talking lowly. 

“Hey,” Eddie squeaks, looking awkward as hell. 

“Hey,” Richie replies cautiously, moving towards him. “Everything okay?”

“We’re just conspiring against you,” Bev says brightly, hopping down from her stool. She gathers some crumbs of brownie from the half-devoured tray, depositing them onto her tongue. She beams at him as she saunters past; as she walks by, she grabs Richie by the shirt and pulls him down to her level, whispering in his ear: “Get your man some wine, stat.” 

“Wine?” Richie repeats, astonished by the request. But Bev is already through the door, tossing a wave over her shoulder. He turns back to Eddie, who is staring up at him with round, baleful eyes. “You’re a wino, Eds? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

He quirks a smile at that cute little face, leaning in to kiss him on the forehead. He doesn’t miss the quiet, fluttery little noise Eddie makes as he does this; Richie’s not sure whether it’s fear of being seen by the others, or whatever else that’s plaguing him. Either way, he reconciles that following Bev’s advice is usually the best way to go, so he heads for the pantry, where his dad’s collection of wines - aside from the hefty load kept down in the cellar - are mounted on a rack on the wall. Richie selects a random red, and takes it back out, presenting it to Eddie with a flourish. 

“Will this be acceptable, monsieur?” 

Eddie squints at the label, then balks. “Richie, that's a twenty year old bottle!” 

Richie laughs, already digging in the drawer for the corkscrew. In the background, someone changes the record to Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Rumours’. Richie uncorks the bottle, feeling a warmth begin to spread through his fingertips - at the sound of one of his favourite bands, the pot blurring his concerns at the edges, and at the sight of Eddie, angelic and taut with nerves, watching Richie’s hands pour him a glass of deep, crimson wine. 

“Thanks,” Eddie says, pulling the glass towards him almost the second the neck of the bottle is lifted from the rim. Richie can’t help but feel a creeping concern as he necks about half of it. He sets the glass back down with obvious disgust. “Ugh. That's vile.”

Richie barks a laugh. “That’s an eighty dollar Rioja. Aged for twenty years!” 

“Sorry,” Eddie says, face screwed up. “Maybe they should’ve left it twenty more.” 

“Please never change,” Richie says, sliding his hands along the bar towards him. Eddie looks down at it worriedly, but places his own on top after a while. Richie drops his voice to a murmur. “What’s up, Princess?” 

“Nothing,” Eddie says too quickly. “How many drinks have you had? Alcoholic drinks." 

“Uhh, none. Well, a sip of Ben’s disgusting cognac. Why?” 

Eddie takes a deep breath in, like he’s readying himself for something. He opens his mouth, as if he’s going to reveal some terrifying secret, but then a weird spasm seems to occur, and he jerks their joined hands forwards, straight into the wine glass, which tips and falls, splattering wine all down Richie’s front. 

“Shit!” Richie exclaims, laughing as he jumps backwards. He studies his messed up outfit, pinching the sopping shirt with his fingers. The wine’s covering the crotch of his pants too. He laughs again, even harder. “Damn, Eds. Y’know, I think you might appreciate this Rioja more now that it’s marinated in my dick.” 

“Sorry, sorry, shit,” Eddie says, jumping up to grab a cloth. 

Instead of using it to dab Richie dry however, he swipes up the remains of the wine from the bar-top and floor, which seems extra hilarious for some reason. “Come on,” Eddie says, grabbing Richie by the wrist and pulling him, with considerable determination, to the door. Richie spews a garbled explanation at the others through his laughter, earning himself several jeers and laughs as they catch sight of his drenched front. Eddie just keeps them moving, pulling Richie up the stairs with a grip so tight that Richie’s hand is starting to feel numb. 

Eddie gets them into Richie’s bedroom and drops his wrist, darting out into the hall again before Richie can say a word. It’s a surreal few seconds, stood alone on his rug, the room pulsating lightly with a pleasant, warm glow. Like someone has left a teabag to dilute the air slightly gold. Then Eddie re-enters, gorgeous and serious in his dark jeans and polo shirt, a damp towel clutched in his hand. 

“Take your shirt off,” Eddie commands. 

“Ooh, love it when you tell me what to- Rmmmph!” Eddie yanks the t-shirt up over his head. Richie struggles out of it, amused. “You’re impatient this evening.” 

Surprisingly, instead of the glare he expects, Eddie gives him the most dick-hardening smirk he’s ever seen. “Pants too.”

“Fuck,” Richie says, eloquently. “Damned insatiable.”

He does, however, unbutton the front of his soaked pants, pushing them down his legs, possibly a tad over-eager. Eddie makes a decent show of swiping the warm, wet cloth over Richie’s stomach and thighs, but it doesn’t last long. Richie falls back to sit on the bed, and Eddie just moves with him, climbing into his lap to kiss him deeply, passionately, his knees pressed firmly against Richie’s outer thighs. They make out this way, unhurried but full of heat, for a good five minutes, during which time Richie’s dick fights through his semi-stoned veneer to prop a sizeable boner, tenting his wine-stained underwear. Eddie kisses along Richie’s jaw, knocking his glasses askew with his cute button nose. 

“I wanna give you another present,” he whispers, then flicks his tongue, gentle as a cat, against Richie’s ear. 

Richie squeezes Eddie’s hips with both hands, nodding, only half-listening. “Uh huh. Wait, uh. Another present? But you already… the tape, and the comics…”

Eddie leans back, arms looped around Richie’s neck, and shakes his head. He’s smiling, which is nice to see after all the nervous frowning he's been doing. “This one's different.” 

“Aw, Eds, you didn’t have to.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, then kisses him again. Richie can taste the wine on his tongue. “I wanted to,” he whispers. “Will you let me give you your present?” 

“Sure, baby, yeah. Whatever you want,” Richie agrees, barely coherent in the grip of his own desperate desire. Only then does it occur to him what he’s agreed to. “Uh, hold on, d’you mean right now?” 

Eddie pulls back again. He nods, eyes wide, lashes casting spidery shadows over his freckles in the warm light. “Yeah.”

“It has to be… right this very second?” Richie asks, biting back a groan of frustration. 

Eddie smirks, the little shit, and shifts his hips forwards, brushing his crotch against the obvious bulge of Richie’s erection. “Yeah. It’s gotta be right now.”

“Fuck,” Richie hisses, head dropping to Eddie’s shoulder. “You’re killing me. Okay, sure. Yep. I might pass out from lack of blood to the brain, but whatever. Gimme my extra present, I’m waiting.” 

He closes his eyes with a sigh as Eddie slides off his lap. He holds out his hands patiently, trying to focus on something other than the throbbing, insistent fury of his untouched dick. 

“You look really hot tonight, by the way,” Eddie says from somewhere close by. 

“Aw man, is this Pennywise again? Is this an elaborate murder-by-blue-balls situation?” 

Eddie snickers, sounding further away now, and Richie thinks he hears the lock of his door clicking. He cocks his head to the side, frowning. “Shh,” Eddie says, back beside him now, and presses their lips together, fleetingly. “Happy birthday, Rich.” 

When Richie opens his eyes, Eddie is on his knees. He’s placed a pillow beneath himself for comfort; the look on his face is one of focus, determination. He’s sliding his hands firmly along the creases of Richie’s inner thighs. As his fingers near the hem of his underwear, it becomes increasingly apparent what the plan is.

“Woah, Eds,” Richie says, startled, and rests gentle hands over Eddie’s, halting them in their tracks. “Hold on, you don’t have to- c’mon, I know you wanna be nice to me today because it's my birthday party, but-”

Eddie shoots him an exasperated look. “Richie, do you really think I’d be putting my mouth anywhere near your dick right now if I wasn’t one hundred percent sure I wanted to?” In his mildly intoxicated haze, Richie struggles for the words to respond. Eddie frowns up at him, concerned. “Unless… you don’t want me to?” 

The noise that leaves Richie’s mouth is barely human. “Fuck, of course I want- Eddie, I want you in every damn way you can think of. But I really don’t mind if this is something _you_ don’t wanna do.”

“I know,” Eddie says, shrugging. With his index finger he traces the seam of Richie’s underwear, where it meets his thigh. “I’m appreciative of your clemency, trust me. But I do want this. I want to make you feel…” he blushes, eyelashes casting spidery shadows over his pink cheeks, “...the way you make me feel. And besides, I’ve been working on this with a coach, of sorts.”

“You’ve _what_?” 

“Can we stop talking now? I feel like we’re killing the mood.” 

Richie can only stare, mute. He manages a jerky sort of nod-shrug, which Eddie seems to understand, thank God. He tugs at the waistband of Richie’s underwear, suddenly alive with excitable nerves again. Richie lifts his hips to help, lets Eddie slide his wine-ruined briefs all the way down his legs and toss them off to the side. 

“Don’t worry about me,” Eddie scolds him, sternly, as he takes hold of Richie’s dick in one hand. “You always worry about me. This is about you. Just enjoy.” 

“Oh, right, I’m the worry-guts in this relationsh- _haa-a_ ,” Richie breaks off, keening as Eddie licks a slow, curious line along his dick, base to tip, then draws back to savour the taste, contemplatively. “Oh, God. Oh, fuck,” Richie garbles, “I’m gonna make it about two minutes at this rate, Eds. God, you look so fucking gorgeous.”

In another instance, it would probably be embarrassing, to spew a litany of completely smitten compliments at the one guy who would not hesitate to rip the shit out of him for it. But Eddie is distracted, rigid with concentration, as he always is when attempting something new. His fingers are loose around the base of Richie's dick, moving gently, absently, while he inspects the rest of him, deciding how to proceed. 

“I don’t think I’m gonna be very good at this,” Eddie tells him, sounding disheartened, “not like you are. I kind of don’t know where to begin.”

“Eddie, seriously, I appreciate the lengths you are going to so, _so_ much, but it's honestly okay if you don’t wanna-”

“Shut up," Eddie groans, tutting loudly, "I’m still gonna give it my best go." Then he leans in again, licking a few more agonisingly long, wet stripes up the length of him. It’s excruciating, how slow he goes, as if he’s adamant on coating every inch of Richie’s dick with his saliva. Richie’s hands curl in the covers either side of his hips. When Eddie finishes the licking, he pulls back, looking Richie straight in the eye. “How am I doing so far?” 

The only response that escapes Richie's lips is a meek whimper. He presses them together to prevent any more embarrassingly desperate noises fighting their way free, then nods emphatically. Eddie's answering smile is beatific, gleeful. His tongue sweeps over his lips. 

“Fuck,” Richie says again, head tipping back, “go easy on me, man. You’re getting me off just looking at me like that.” 

“You want me to stop?” Eddie asks, innocent, then moves in to twirl the very point of his tongue around the head of Richie’s cock, feather light. It’s so sensitive now, from the build-up, that Richie’s thighs twitch, and he shuffles closer to the edge of the bed without thinking, seeking more. “I could just look at you, if you prefer.”

“N-no,” Richie moans, one hand reaching out to cup Eddie’s cheek. “Fuck, don’t- don’t stop. You’re doing so good, baby. It feels…”

“Feels what?” Eddie asks at once, searching and hungry for the end of that sentence. 

Richie’s teetering on the edge of incoherency, but he summons up the remains of his internal lexicon, rifling through for the right word. “Heavenly,” he lands on, thumb swiping over Eddie’s cheekbone. “Fuck, you’re an angel.”

Eddie hums, satisfied, and slips his mouth over the head of Richie’s cock, suckling gently while Richie goes quietly insane. He digs a hand into his own hair, desperate and confused by the wholly new sensations undulating through him: warmth, and slick, soft pressure. The trembling vibration of the throaty, quiet noises Eddie is making. 

“Eddie,” Richie breathes, slipping over some precipice, plunging straight down into the hot, viscous, pleasure-pool beneath. 

Unperturbed, Eddie slides down over him further, taking Richie deep into his mouth, gradually, carefully - as if he would take any other approach. Richie’s muscles seize as the intensity of the sensation dials up the heat, searing scorch-marks down his arms, up the back of his neck, but he forces his thighs to remain still, not to thrust upwards into that incredible slack, hot, wet mouth. Once his lips meet the circle of his thumb and forefinger, Eddie pulls back in a long, delicious slide, and Richie can’t stifle the throat-thick moan that slips out. Eddie stares up at him, wondrously, eyes hooded, lips red and puffy, still gently moving his fist up and down in that same, maddening pace. 

“Good?” he asks, sending up a wicked, entirely illegal smirk. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Richie says, brokenly, the tremors of cresting pleasure nipping all up his arms, punching the air from his lungs. “You've gone full metal nerd on this shit, haven't you? I should’ve known you’d _study_ blowjob-ing. Get better than me at it. Fuck you. Please don’t stop.”

“I believe the verb is blowing,” Eddie mocks, prim and proper as he sinks his mouth back down onto Richie’s cock, setting up a rhythm now that he’s sure he's got the technique down.

Richie's hand flings out to clutch at his shoulder for purchase, and though he tries not to dig his fingers in, he’s not sure he manages to stay in control on top of everything else. Eddie’s tongue flattens against him as he sinks down then rises up, gradually building the pace. The sound of his polite, neat little slurps are utterly obscene in the quiet of this room, where only a faint Stevie Nicks song is audible from all the way downstairs. Richie has never paid much attention to the signifiers of his orgasm, but now he’s hyper aware of the way his balls draw tight, how the skin covering his thighs shriek with hot, agitated goosebumps. His toes curl in the carpet beside Eddie's knees. He strokes a thumb over the shell of Eddie’s ear, having to try a few times to get any words out at all.

“E-Eddie, baby,” he says, and Eddie’s eyes flick up to meet his. It’s almost enough to make him come right there, seeing Eddie look up at him with his soft, pink mouth stretched around his cock. He summons every scrap of willpower he has to fend it off for a few seconds more. “I’m gonna come,” he chokes out, followed quickly by a moan as Eddie lets his dick slip out to run an eager tongue over the head again. “Fuck, I’m gonna come _soon_.” 

The only way Richie can describe the responding expression on Eddie’s face is ‘pleased’, which adds a whole new layer of fantastic and dangerously arousing feelings to the mix. As expected, Eddie chooses not to re-seal his lips over Richie’s dick now that he’s been warned of the imminent eruption, but he speeds up his wrist movements, jerking Richie to completion with the vigour and determination of a bootcamp recruit proving himself to be a worthy soldier. Richie groans long and loud into the crook of his own elbow as he surrenders to the steadily building ecstasy, hyper-aware that his release is a tad more voluminous than normal, and is, quite probably, doing its best to wreck Eddie’s hot little party outfit. 

“Come here,” Richie rasps out after he’s gathered himself as best he can, reaching out for hands, waist, shoulders - whatever he can get at. Somewhere along the way, his glasses have been knocked askew. Shakily, he attempts to right them, but surrenders to Eddie’s help when he clambers up onto the bed, flushed and happy, flinging his body down onto Richie’s. “Ughh, go easy on me, Spagheds. I’m weakened.”

“You’re an old man now,” Eddie giggles, falling down to lie beside him, his back to Richie’s chest, pulling his arm around his waist, the way they fit themselves in Eddie’s bed when Richie sleeps over. “It’s all downhill once you turn eighteen.” This close, the floral notes of Eddie’s shampoo are overpowering. He takes a deep inhale, and Eddie’s voice drops, asks: “Was that… okay?”

In response, Richie wraps both arms around him, squeezing tight enough that Eddie squeaks, like a chew toy. “I want you to understand, Edward, that in one fell swoop you have ruined me for anyone else. Never will I find lips as sweet as yours. Never will I find a tongue as fickle-”

“Shut up,” Eddie snorts, swatting at him. 

“Right,” Richie says seriously, sliding his hands purposefully down Eddie's tight, delicious body to palm over the bulge of his dick, stiff and pressing against the zip of his pants. “Get ready, Kaspbrak. It would appear you’re gunning for my title as world's best. Which means I’ve got something to prove.”

“What?” Eddie yelps as Richie squeezes his hand around him. “N-no, Rich, this is your birthday surprise, it’s supposed to be about you-”

“Do you know how many birthdays I have wished for you, Eds?” Richie asks, deftly opening the fly of his pants and slipping his hand into the warm cavern. “I assure you, this will very much still be all about me.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, the final chapter. Thank you for reading this, it was a self indulgent journey of sweet, fond, explorative first love, but I enjoyed every moment of writing it. Hope you had fun too, and that it brought some comfort after the ending-that-will-not-be-named in It ch2. 
> 
> Much love to you all! 
> 
> xxx

Luckily, by the time he and Eddie finish exchanging wonderful, earth-shattering oral sex in his room, the party has descended into the usual state of alcohol-fuelled chaos. Stan is in the garden, bird-calling into Richie’s fir trees. A new girl that Richie supposes is Patty Blum -  _ when had she turned up? _ \- is trekking out to where Stan is, laughing good-naturedly at his antics. Mike is stood trying to coax them both back inside from the doorway of the wide-open French windows, brandishing a near empty bottle of gin that Stan has been favouring all night.  Bill and Audra are somehow draped around each other so tightly in Richie’s dad’s favourite armchair that it’s difficult to suss out where one ends and the other begins. Ben is determinedly dancing along to ‘Thriller’ with all the correct moves from the video, his face red from concentration. 

At quarter to midnight, in the midst of the madness, Bev finds Richie hovering by the table of gifts, plucking aimlessly at the half-stuck flap of wrapping paper on a present that has a tag reading: ‘Trashmouth. Thanks for party. You owe me a new copy of 'Advanced Birdwatching in the United States'. From Stan x.’ 

He’s been standing here for some time, diligently replaying the phenomenal blowjob experience in vivid detail so that he won’t wake up tomorrow with any holes in the memory. Eddie is, of course, taking a quick shower, and will be down in a few minutes time, so it won’t look too suspicious. As if it didn't look hella suspicious already, the two of them running off upstairs to 'change Richie's shirt' and not returning for a good half hour. Hopefully the others were too drunk to notice that, though. 

“Hey there,” Beverly says as she sidles up, two drinks in her hands. She passes one to him, and Richie takes it with a grateful smile. “Having fun?”

“Beverly,” Richie says sombrely, one hand smacking down onto her shoulder, “I need to tell you. Something wonderful has happened to me tonight. I am a new man.” 

She laughs, shoving him in the chest with a scrunched up expression. “Getting your dick sucked does not make you a new man, you disgusting perv. Virginity is a concept drilled into us by the patriarchy.”

Richie narrows his eyes. “How did you know… oh, shit. He got a _coach_ , huh. God, Marsh, I don’t know whether to hug you or smack you.”

“I’d like to see you try and smack me, dickwad,” she says, so Richie throws his arms around her neck, making her laugh. “Stop! I’ll spill my drink, you maniac.”

He releases her, but only so he can stare deeply into her eyes as he says, “Thank you. Bless you.”

She rolls her eyes, but nods. “It was kind of awkward. He made me show him what to do on an ice cream cone.” 

Richie’s next sip was wonderfully timed, so Beverly gets a lovely spittle spray of rum and coke when the image of this scene hits him. Just as she’s kicking him in the shin for the unprecedented liquid attack, Eddie approaches, his damp hair scrunched and messy from where he’d obviously tried to towel it dry, his wide eyes betraying abject concern. 

“Hey,” he squeaks. 

Beverly gives him a glowing smile, despite the drops of soda coating her cheeks. “Hey,” she replies, then finger guns at his chest. “Hideous shirt. From Richie’s closet, I assume. Did you spill wine on the one you were wearing, too?” 

Eddie flushes, so Richie pulls him into a side-hug, letting Eddie bury his embarrassment in his shoulder as he sips sweet, fizzy alcohol. _Life is good_. 

The party peaks at midnight, when Richie loudly and obnoxiously announces to the room that from this day on, now that he has passed eighteen years through life, he is a wiser, worldly man, and is therefore declaring a mutiny against Bill for the spot of the group’s leader. This is quickly downvoted by absolutely everyone else, including Eddie, which is a tough pill to swallow. But Eddie kisses his knuckles when he starts pouting about it, discreetly of course, and Richie’s heart flips so violently that he forgets all about it. 

The idea to go easy on the drinking was a wise one, as Richie can already feel his mind see-sawing between drunk and stoned after only two drinks and a single brownie. Knowing Bev, they are absolutely saturated with pot because her tolerance is way up, and she knows Richie loves a buzz. With this in mind, he feeds Eddie about a quarter of brownie, sizzling on the spot when Eddie licks his finger clean. The others hoover up the last of them like the vultures they are, and then, bodies deciding on the stoned end of the scale, they all begin to drop onto the couches. Richie tells someone, possibly Ben, to put on a film. 

It turns out to be Terminator, again, but Richie doesn’t even care. He just settles into the corner of the couch, a big cushion behind his head, and pulls Eddie in tightly, his glasses magnifying every last freckle on that adorable face. At some point, Richie can hear the explosion of machine guns in the background from Arnie’s gun, but he’s got his eyes shut tight, and his mouth against Eddie’s, so the context is lost on him.  Eddie is kissing him back, just as lost in the sauce. He’s got a leg hitched up onto Richie’s thigh, his knee dangerously close to crotch area, and a fist crumpling the front of Richie’s shirt. It’s vaguely apparent to Richie that perhaps he shouldn’t be letting this happen, that there are possible negative consequences to doing the kissing so publicly, but the voice that warns him of this is so high-pitched and far away that it’s hard to give it any attention at all. Eddie’s mouth is as soft as bubblegum, and just as sweet. He’d definitely brushed his teeth after his shower. 

The film ends, and Richie is still kissing Eddie, or, more truthfully, letting Eddie kiss him. They’re laid out on the sofa now, Eddie half-falling into the crease between the cushions. Richie’s arms are around his waist - a life raft, keeping him afloat. Eddie keeps giggling, clearly feeling the brownie’s effects, and at one point removes Richie’s glasses in order to slot them onto his own face. Richie wishes he could see how cute he looks; he knows that they would dwarf his tiny nose and cheeks. 

“Um,” Mike says, at some point during credits music, “are you… do you guys see this?”

A few snorts of laughter sound, along with Bill’s groan. “I can’t tell if this is better or worse than the fighting.” 

“Worse,” Beverly concludes. “The fighting could be broken up. Now we’d have to find a crowbar to prise them apart.” 

“I’m sorry,” Mike continues, voice shrill. “Did you all know about this?”

“Yep,” Bev says.

“Yeah,” Ben says, sounding apologetic. “Not for long, though.”

“I caught them making out the night of the dance,” Bill says. “I obviously wasn’t gonna say anything to anyone, but apparently they’re not that worried about being discreet anymore.”

“I didn’t see them!” Audra exclaims. “When was this, Billy?”

“I kinda figured they’d always been doing this,” Stan says; this is almost enough to make Richie pull away from Eddie and fire a buttload of questions at him, but he doesn’t quite manage. “I mean, Richie climbs in Eddie’s window and sleeps in his single bed like… every night.” 

“When you put it like that…” Bill says, chuckling. 

“So I’m the only one who didn’t know?!” Mike asks, incredulous. 

“Except for me,” Audra pipes up. “We can be out of the loop together.” 

"And me," another, unfamiliar female voice says. "But then, I don't really know any of you guys."

"Maybe keep it hush hush," Stan advises, "if that's okay."

"Duh," the female voice says. "Anyway, free love and all that." 

“God damn,” Mike huffs, and the sofa quakes as he falls back against it. “Well. I guess if those two are setting up camp here, Richie’s bed is up for grabs.”

“What! No way, couples get first dibs, that thing is huge-” Bill begins to say, and then there is the unmistakable kerfuffle of six pairs of legs scrambling to their feet and rushing in the direction of the stairs. 

*

Three days after Richie’s eighteenth birthday, Liam from the arcade sneaks him into a bar where his older brother is performing stand-up. Richie is tall, skinny, and goofish, but the dingy light hides his pubescent looks, and exaggerates his six feet of height, so the bartender hardly glances at him when he orders a beer. He doesn’t even like beer, but it was a quick, simple choice that will be sure to last him a while.  He gets one for Liam too, out of solidarity, because Liam looks very much like a nervous eighteen-year-old kid that snuck in through the back entrance because his brother told him nobody ever checks it. 

Richie is only doing this to kill time before he can go climb into Eddie’s bedroom as usual, and he fully expects the comedy to be shit, and to be found and thrown out before long. But he lands a couple of seats on the end of another group’s table with Liam, and though they’re not really friends, the beers help a reasonably entertaining conversation to pass back and forth between them while they wait. Eventually, the light dim even further, and the hubbub quietens.  A round, excitable man burst onto the stage, asking what the hell everyone is doing here on a Wednesday night, and if they meant to check in to the AA meeting at the church a few doors down. The audience, loosened from the alcohol and the man's infectious animation, laugh and raise their glasses. The man peers into the gloom draped over the audience's heads and plucks out a few people nearest the stage, teasing them gently about their shitty jobs, their are-they-aren’t-they dates, and their lack of effort dress-wise. 

Richie finds himself shaking with laughter before the first comedian even comes on, caught up in the elation of the crowd, the way they hurl their rapt attention at the man on stage, as eager to watch someone be roasted as they are squirming at the thought of it being them. 

“Dude, is your brother as funny as this guy?” Richie asks Liam as the introducer booms the name of the first act. 

Liam sighs heavily, gulping down some beer. “I hate him for it, but he’s funnier.”

“Woah,” Richie says, and settles back into his seat to watch.

*

“...and then he did this whole bit about how guys these days are secretly using Farrah Fawcett hairspray to get that perfect quiff, and he, like, did a  _ spot on _ impression of her smuggling the spray to these kids in the lining of her bathing suit-”

“Sounds like he really killed it,” Eddie interrupts, amused. 

He’s propped up on one elbow, leaning over Richie while he rambles. Richie catches ahold of himself, sobering slightly at the twitch of Eddie’s smile. 

“Whoops,” Richie says, giving him a wonky grin, “I’m kinda tipsy, huh?”

“A reasonable assessment,” Eddie says, fondly. He says a lot of things fondly, nowadays, when they’re alone like this. He traces Richie’s jaw with his finger. “Could cut myself on this jawline, Tozier.” 

“Uh… be careful? Your mom might wake up if I have to go rummage in her planet-sized medicine cabinet for a band-aid.” 

Eddie snorts. “You’re so bad at this.” 

But he leans over anyway, letting himself fall on top of Richie in a not entirely gentle manner. Richie slips a hand to the back of Eddie’s head as their lips meet, body humming with delight. They know how to do this now, how to kiss each other to the point where it gets too intense to stop. Eddie pulls Richie’s hands to his waist, rolls on top of him, digs his hands into Richie’s unruly mane. 

“Kinda jealous,” Eddie admits, mumbling it between them as he positions himself. 

Interest peaked, Richie turns his face to ask, “jealous? Of Liam? Oh, babe, he is nothing on you. His ass is way too flat for a fanny pack.”

To hammer the point in, Richie reaches down to clutch a handful of Eddie’s delicious bum, making him squeak. 

“Not him,” Eddie says, pushing his crotch forwards with a tiny, broken off moan. “I meant the comedian.”

“Ew, no,” Richie says, breathless as Eddie plants kisses down his neck, “he was dirty and crude. I can’t go for a guy like that, we’d be too alike.”

“Oh yeah? You like the pristine little goody-goodies?” 

“Eddie, if you think you’re a goody-goody, I have several examples of your delinquency to reel off, including the things you’re about to do with that hand of yours- fuck, yep, see what I mean?”

Eddie has plunged his hand into Richie’s pants, a wicked smile on his lips. “I just haven’t seen you lit up like that for anyone else.”

“Lit up?” Richie chokes out. 

Eddie’s palm presses insistently against Richie’s crotch, steadily coaxing his semi into full hardness with barely a flicker. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to hear you talk about something that you really like for once.” He sits back on his haunches to unfasten Richie’s jeans, then starts tugging them off. “But I’m still jealous.” 

“That’s so hot,” Richie says, feeling a sharp, bullet-sized ball of bliss zing through him. Without a thought, he lurches up, tackling Eddie to the bed so violently that the springs creak. Eddie yelps, but Richie stifles the noise with an open-mouthed kiss, one that Eddie groans into, arms locking around his neck. “There’s no one but you, Princess,” Richie assures him, speaking low, hot, deep, into his ear, the way that makes Eddie shudder all over, the way he would never admit he loves aloud. 

“Fuck,” Eddie whispers, pulling their faces close enough to kiss, “tell me again.” 

Richie takes his face in both hands, still a little theatrical from the two pints of beer in his belly, and says, solemnly, “Eddie, baby, you’re my one and only. I’ve loved you since forever. It’s always been you.”

Later, when they’re a lot more naked, and completely exhausted, Eddie is saying something into Richie’s chest. He’s so pressed in there that the words are a jumble of nonsense, so Richie pushes against his shoulder until Eddie rolls onto his back, pink-cheeked and avoiding his eye. 

“What was that, Kaspbrak?” 

Eddie flings his arm over his face, hiding in the crook of his elbow. “Don’t look at me while I say this.” 

“Um, okay…” Obediently, Richie rolls onto his back as well, staring at the tassels of Eddie’s overhead lamp. “Are you about to break up with me? Because doing it while I’m naked is just incredibly cruel, even by your standards-”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Eddie asks, outraged, pulling his arm away. “You think I have cruel standards? No, shut up, you’re just trying to wind me up.” The arm fixes itself back in place, which is a darn shame, because Richie loves nothing more than to look at him when he’s like this, opened up like a blossoming flower, rosy, aglow and sweet. “I’m not breaking up with you, moron. Not that you’ve actually asked me to- whatever. Look, the point is, I want to tell you that I feel the same, okay? I know you’re holding the martyr flag high, but… I honestly cannot picture myself ever loving someone else. I know how that sounds. I know I’m eighteen, and there’ll be heaps of people in the future that might be way better suited to me than a kid-brained, trashmouthed super-nerd with noodle proportions, but I just… I know I won’t want them. I know. I’ll  only want you.” 

“Eds, do you wanna be my boyfriend?” Richie blurts, voice thick from the choked back tears. 

Eddie peeks out from behind his elbow, suspiciously. “Are you doing a stupid joke? Am I about to hit you?”

“Er, no, and probably? You hit me at, like, five minute intervals on a good day, so...” 

Eddie pauses for a long time. Long enough to send Richie’s heart into a frenzied overdrive, skittering through every possible rejection in the book. 

Then, Eddie hits him. “It’s not every five minutes, asshole.” He scoots in closer, until he’s sharing Richie’s pillow; their noses brush. “Do you mean it?” 

“Yeah,” Richie says, swallowing hard. “I thought maybe it was kind of redundant at this point, but… the offer’s on the table.”

“Redundant?” Eddie scoffs. “Wow, that’s romantic.”

“I just mean… well, you’ve had your dick in my mouth. Isn’t that, like a few steps ahead of ‘boyfriends’?” 

“I’ve had your dick in my mouth too,” Eddie counters, and Richie nods seriously, though he's not exactly sure what Eddie's point is. “It’s not redundant. I want... what you said. I want it a lot.”

“Yeah?” Richie asks, a sparkler igniting in his chest. He grins, and Eddie rolls his eyes, but smiles back. “You’ll be boyfriends with me?” 

“Yes, Rich, I’ll be boyfriends with you.” 

Richie kisses him, mostly to disguise the gross things his face and tear ducts are doing in response to that. He feels as though the atoms that make him up might skitter apart, spreading him to the far corners of the galaxy. So he holds onto Eddie’s hands, gripping tight, and Eddie squeezes back, keeping him right where he is. 

Three months later

It’s five in the morning before Eddie hears the quiet swearing and scrabbling outside his window. Richie always thinks he’s being discreet, but Eddie knows he’s coming at least five minutes before the irritating tap on his window, in the tune of a movie that’s been out of cinemas for over ten years. Eddie switches on the light at his bedside, hops out of bed, and quickly opens his wardrobe door to look at his reflection in the mirror inside.  His hair needs a comb, but it’s useless to do that when Richie will have mussed it up in moments. He’s got his pyjamas on, but he grabs Richie’s sweater from where it’s buried at the bottom of the wardrobe where his mom won’t see, and pulls it on over the top. Then, he closes the door and gets back into bed. 

Richie struggles for a good minute and half with the window, but Eddie resists the urge to get up and help him, too eager for the ritual of Richie finding him asleep and curling up beside him to give in to his need to stop Richie getting further bruised by the ancient frame. He wrestles it open eventually, and Eddie hears the typical thud of his ungainly body hitting the carpet, then the screech of the window being pulled closed. It occurs to Eddie, eyes shut tight, still as a cornered mouse, that perhaps he shouldn’t be so sure that it is actually his boyfriend climbing in through his window. This is, after all, the exact kind of scene a certain clown that still invades Eddie’s nightmares would love to play out, only to reveal some hideous caricature of his worst fears (Richie vomiting blood all over him and dying of T.B., Richie sneering that he’s grown tired of pandering to Eddie’s hypochondria and is leaving for good, Eddie waking up in the morning to find himself curled around Richie’s bloated, bloodless corpse, etc.). 

But, like all the Losers have learned to do, Eddie compresses the thoughts into a tight, pin-sized ball, which he tosses into the padlocked chest of his darkest traumas, to be opened at a later date, perhaps when he has some stability in his life, and has finally left Derry for good.  Eddie listens to Richie toeing off his shoes, unfastening his jeans, pulling off the jacket he’s wearing - probably that big leather one that Liam’s brother Jet gave him that he loves so much - and slipping beneath the covers on the other side of the bed. The smile stretches across Eddie’s mouth as the warmth seeps across the sheets, followed by the arm snaking around his waist, pulling him in tight. 

Richie places his lips, cold from the night air, just below Eddie’s ear. “I know you’re faking, doofus.” 

“Shut up, ‘m sleeping,” Eddie mumbles, but the gig is up. He rolls over, letting Richie kiss him without complaint even though his bedtime teeth-brushing, flossing, and mouthwashing routine has almost definitely lost the battle with the six hours of sleep he's just had. Richie doesn’t care anyway, probably doesn’t even think about such things, so Eddie has learned to let this particular sleeping dog lie. “You’re so late back,” Eddie croons, tucking some of the flyaway curls tickling his face behind Richie’s ear, “you must be so tired.”

Richie nods, lips brushing over Eddie’s upper lip and chin, because he doesn’t stop trying to kiss him. He’s taken off his glasses, Eddie notes - a sure-fire way to tell that he’s completely wiped out. 

“Was it fun tonight?” Eddie asks softly, peppering kisses against Richie’s mouth as he leans him back into the pillows, trying to get him to relax. 

Richie sighs, smiling as he pulls Eddie into him, one set of fingers raking through Eddie’s hair. “It was, yeah. Jet made the audience clap for me. Well, me and the other guys on the backstage crew. Was cool.”

“Ooh,” Eddie says with a smile, burying his face into Richie’s chest, “are you hooked on the applause now? Am I gonna lose you to the lure of the bright lights?” 

Eddie is on top of Richie, more or less, so he feels the stutter in his breathing, the way his muscles clench. At once, Eddie is concerned, hyper-tuned as he is to Richie’s every tell. He tries to sit up and see Richie’s expression, but Richie keeps a firm arm around his shoulders. 

“Hey, I wanna talk to you about something,” Richie says, sounding very, very nervous all of a sudden. “Are you gonna freak out if I do?” 

“Um, do you remember who you're talking to? _Yes_ , what the fuck?” 

Eddie’s heart pounds; he can feel the age-old false tightening of his lungs, and has to squeeze his eyes shut to remind himself it’s not real, to stop his hands lunging for the drawer full of gazebo inhalers at his bedside.  Then, Richie pulls him up so they’re face-to-face on the pillow, the way they’ve been lying together since they were kids before they realised it was a bit too close to be considered normal for two best buds. Richie nudges their noses together, giving him a gorgeous, dopey, extra-Richie smile. The panic recedes, and Eddie can breathe again; he finds Richie’s hand in the covers, gripping it tight. 

“Eds, this is not a bad talk,” Richie says, softly, gently. “But will you just listen for a minute?” 

It’s so rare for a conversation to have gone on this long without Richie making a joke that Eddie nods, sensing the weight that Richie is carrying. Eddie trusts him - if he says it’s nothing bad, then it’s nothing bad. Both of them know bad - they know the worst it can get - and they know good. Amazing, euphoric levels of good. So Eddie trusts him to know where this talk falls on that scale. 

“Okay,” Richie says, tiredly, and kisses Eddie, briefly, before speaking again. “So, there were these guys at the show tonight. They were down from a theatre in New York, because they’d read an article about how rural Maine had some great comedy spots.” 

“That sounds unlikely,” Eddie interjects, frowning, then remembers he’s supposed to be shutting up. “Sorry. Continue.” 

“Nah, I agree. With this kind of shit my first thought is always ol’ Pennywise,” Richie sighs, tracing along Eddie’s cheek with his knuckle. “If it’s too good to be true, it probably is. That’s my mantra, thanks to the kid-killing clown.” 

Richie looks unfairly beautiful in this kind of light. Eddie’s dumb lamp with its faded pink shade washes his face with rose gold, splashing over his high cheekbones, tucking shadows into the hollows beneath. His glasses have made indents just above the bump of his gorgeous nose, little pink nicks either side, that Eddie itches to run his fingertip over. His lips, too, are large and plush, the kind that girls sometimes get injections of silicone to try and replicate, and end up paralysing their faces. Eddie gets to kiss those lips. He also has to hear infuriating ‘your mom’ jokes come out of them, but it’s kind of worth it, as long as Richie never hears that out loud. 

“I do that too,” Eddie admits, unable to help pressing the pads of his fingers against Richie’s lower lip, feeling the pillowy give of it, how it stretches when he smiles. “Convince myself that the clown is warping everything.”

“PTSD sucks,” Richie affirms, then kisses Eddie’s fingers, still smiling. It makes Eddie’s heart squeeze. “Anyway, these New York guys, they were there tonight no matter if a clown coaxed them in. And they liked the set. They _really_ liked the set, actually.”

“Whose?” 

“All of them. Jet, Bobby, Kevin, Maurice. The whole troupe. They want to invest in them. Take them on tour across the country.” 

“Wow,” Eddie says, brows knitting. Something is lurking in the back of this story, something Eddie doesn’t like. He feels himself tensing, preparing for its attack. “That’s… great for them.” 

“Yeah,” Richie says, thickly. His eyes fall to the left of Eddie’s face. “That’s, uh. That’s the thing. See, they want to go, of course. Jet and the others. But they want a roadie still. And… well. They really like me.” 

Eddie can feel, this time, that his lungs really do stop working. The breath catches, trapped in his chest, threatening to explode out of him in a spluttering cough. His hand unwinds from Richie’s, and he shifts back a little, trying to grasp what Richie is saying. 

“You… want to go with them?” 

“I do,” Richie whispers, eyes shiny. “Really bad. Jet said that he’d even let me do a supporting act, if I wrote some stuff up. He thinks I’m funny, he tells me so.” 

“You’re not funny,” Eddie says automatically, “you’re just louder than everyone else.” 

Richie laughs, his eyes crinkling. “That’s why I need you around, Eds. You’re the funniest person I know. Plus you’d keep me in my place if my head got too big after all the standing ovations I’m sure to get.” 

As per usual, Richie’s mouth is running ahead of everyone else in the room. Eddie places a hand over it, still reeling. “Wait a minute. What? Need me around when?” 

Richie draws Eddie’s hand away, suddenly looking nervous as hell. “I want you to come with me,” he says, eyes darting over Eddie’s face, trying to make out his reaction, probably, without the aid of his glasses. “I mean, of course I want that. I want you to be with me all the time. I want us to leave here together. I want us to find our own way out of this hellhole. You know all this, I’ve told you a bajillion times. But this could be it, Eds. This could be how we do it. I know it’s not ideal, and you had a different plan for later on, but maybe you could think about it?”

Eddie has the urge to bury his face in his hands and cry. It’s not Richie’s fault, that he’s impulsive and lacks the attention span to properly weigh up the pros and cons of such a huge request. But it still tears a frayed hole in Eddie's chest every time he comes out with something like this. He rolls onto his back, staring upwards as he tries to corral his rampant thoughts, tries to herd them into order so he can explain to Richie why he’s going to have to hurl a crowbar between the wheel spokes of this runaway dream train before it’s even left the station. 

Before he can, though, Richie speaks. “I know you’re going to say no, Princess.” He’s upset; Eddie can hear it in the croak of his words. “It’s okay. I get too excited about this stuff. I just hate this fucking town so much. And I love you even more than I hate Derry. It all seemed to fit so well, when me and the other guys were talking about it back at the club, all excited. But then, I have been awake for, like, twenty-seven hours. And I'm two beers in. I'm probably not selling it great.” 

Eddie tangles their hands together again. “I’m not saying no,” he says carefully, ignoring the way Richie’s hand grips his. “But this needs thought, Richie. This is a huge thing to just ask me at five in the morning when you’re tipsy and on the verge of passing out. This is you asking me to leave my home, my mentally ill mother, my best friends. This is you asking me to skip our graduation ceremony, and run off on a mad, cross-country adventure with you and a bunch of other guys I barely know, with no prospects ahead of me except the chance of you maybe making it as a stand-up comedian.” 

“Wow, when you say it like that it sounds absolutely batshit crazy,” Richie says, chuckling. “…and you’re _ not _ saying no? Maybe you are a li’l nuts.” 

“You’re nuttier,” Eddie protests, “you suggested this foolhardy plan.”

“Foolhardy?” Richie asks, snorting with laughter. “Are we in the 13th Century? Are we to embark on a spiffing quest, brethren?” 

“Shut up,” Eddie says, automatically. 

They lie quietly for a moment, hands linked, both deep in thought. “Could you imagine it, though?” Richie asks in a whisper, like he’s scared of saying it. “Us, together, away from here?”

Eddie doesn’t say anything at first. He’s too busy doing exactly that. Picturing himself in a grotty, crammed tour bus with several other stinky, loud unfunny men, speeding down the highway towards some equally dirty motel in an unfamiliar town. Watching endless deliveries of the same stupid jokes on different stages, needing to bring his own anti-bacterial spray and a toilet seat cover into every bar and theatre. Having to insist that they check the motel bed thoroughly for bedbugs before falling asleep, let alone doing anything else. 

And throughout all of that, having Richie beside him, tucking him beneath his long arm in front of the other guys in that possessive way he does without being aware. Draping jackets and sweaters over Eddie when he shivers. Kissing him with that disbelief in his eyes, like he’s so sure Eddie’s about to disappear in a puff of smoke, to slip away from him. Laughing so hard at Eddie’s snarky rebuffs that tears streak down his steel-cut cheekbones. Tickling Eddie until he shrieks, calls for mercy, kisses him to distraction. Ordering Eddie pancakes because he won’t stop rambling about them. Pressing his hot, fiery mouth over Eddie’s naked skin, worshipful and achingly slow, taking his time about stripping the flesh from Eddie’s bones, exposing his nerves to the air. 

It's not exactly Eddie's idea of paradise, but if Richie's there with him, it comes pretty fucking close. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says, swallowing. “Let’s go to sleep. We can talk about it more in the morning.” 

He rolls over, reaching to switch off the light, and Richie curls around him as normal. They shuffle and fidget, finding their grooves; Richie’s fingers slip just inside the elastic of Eddie’s pyjama pants, the way he often does, like he’s proving to himself that he’s allowed. In the morning, when the sun has risen, those fingers will probe further, stirring Eddie into wakefulness with hard, precise strokes. 

This is how Eddie wakes up most days now, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world. He tries to picture his mornings, stretching over weeks, maybe months, without this. With Richie far away, in a different state, the thread that connects them pulled taut, threatening to snap. His heart aches just thinking of it, like a serrated knife has dragged over the fleshy walls of muscle, sawing it in two. He places his own hand over Richie’s at his pelvis, to reassure himself. 

“You okay?” Richie asks, picking up on the tension at once. 

Because that’s what they are, he and Richie. Harmonised souls. Entwined so deeply, so completely, that to tear them apart would be agony. To live here, in such a foul crap heap of a town, where he's lived through the worst shit a kid can go through, without Richie, now that he’s had so much of him, would be unbearable. To survive the days with his mother, and not be able to grit his teeth through it, telling himself to hold on until the evening, when Richie will be with him again. To ride his bike through town, across the bridge where their initials are carved, to swing in Ben’s hammock alone. It’s all too terrible to contemplate. 

“I want to run away with you,” Eddie finds himself saying through a sudden, unexpected spillage of tears. “Don’t leave without me,” he garbles, hurrying to turn over, to face Richie again in the dark. “Don’t leave me here. I can’t be without you.” 

He smashes his mouth into Richie’s stunned face before he can speak, kissing hard, crying harder, until Richie gently pushes him back. “Hey, baby, what are you talking about? I’m not leaving you, fuck that. I would never do that, okay? Please don’t cry, Princess.”

Eddie sniffles, fumbling for the pack of tissues on his bedside table and pulling one out. Richie helps him, taking another and using it to wipe carefully beneath his eyes. 

“Listen to me, Eds,” Richie says, serious for once in his life, “you wanna come on an adventure with me, that’s awesome, we can definitely talk about cramming you into my suitcase. But if you don’t, that’s okay. We won’t go. Neither of us. I’m not about to run off and leave you behind for months. I’d go fucking insane without you. I’d miss you so bad I think I’d hitch back to Derry a week in. And I can't stand Derry. It’s both of us or nothing, babe. Those are the only options.” 

“That’s not fair,” Eddie wails softly, “this isn’t about me. This is about you, and your dream of doing stand-up. You can’t throw away your chance for me.” 

“Well, you might be up for chasing the dream, right?” Richie asks, weakly, as if he knows Eddie will falter and wimp out tomorrow, as he probably will, knowing him. “But if not, there’ll be other big breaks. I’m a hilarious marvel. This is just the first of many opportunities to fill the Trashmouth-shaped hole in this world.” 

Eddie giggles, snottily, into his tissue. “Yeah, I guess.”

“And you have dreams too,” Richie reminds him, “don’t think I forgot that. I had this whole plan that we’d get Bill or one of the others to forward your college acceptance letters to wherever we are on tour, then spend our days off deciding which one you wanna go to. We could even hit the campus tours on our pit stops if we time them right. Then, after the summer, we’ll drop you off for freshman orientation, and I’ll come see you all the time because I’ll have saved up to by a car with all my superstar comedian cash-”

Eddie kisses him. It’s wet, and a little gross from the crying, but Richie sinks into it anyway, one big hand pressed to Eddie’s cheek. “I love you,” Eddie says, firmly, determinedly, like he’s trying to stamp it into Richie’s mind. “You’re the best thing in my life.”

“You too, Eds,” Richie tells him fondly, then lets out a tiny yawn. “It’s okay, we don’t have to decide this right now, like you said. We can take some time to think it through properly, the exact way I didn’t.”

“Yeah, you definitely need to sleep on this,” Eddie says; like he’s suddenly been given permission, Richie’s eyes slip closed around a nod. 

Eddie rolls over, little spoon again, and begins trying to worry himself to sleep. Richie’s arm tightens around him then, lips pressed against the back of his neck, and instead, Eddie finds himself hoping, cautiously, that he might, possibly, be able to have this forever. 

“Nighty night, Spagheds.”

“Night, loser.” 


End file.
